Thank Our Unlucky Stars
by Stoic Harlequin
Summary: The bond between brothers is as strong as its most well kept secret.
1. Into the Night

**::Author's Note::**

We have been quite busy with work and school and the holidays, as many of you. However, yes that's right, we have started a new story. There are many *MANY* fifth turtle stories. We wanted to take that approach with a twist. First of all '#5' is a boy. This idea started with the ever wonderment of what made Laird and Eastman pick Donatello as he wasn't exactly, historically speaking, among the most popular Italian Renaissance artists. From there it came to our attention that we've been itching for a grand adventure. This is an AU, clearly, but we have reworked many aspects. Though the personalities of our favored four heroes will mostly be represented from the 2k3 cartoon, Shredder will not have the utrom connection. Instead he will be more like the Shredder we know from the original movie. There will be other details, all of which will be revealed throughout this story.

For any friends who have read any of our other work it is good to note that, like with Sing to Me, there will be things mentioned throughout that will tie in later. We rarely leave anything in our writing without mentioning it later; bread crumbs if you will which, if you follow them, will lead you to the oven.

Please, with all that being said, we'd love to hear what you think and we'd be honored if you'd give our story a chance. We really hope you won't be disappointed.

Thank you for reading!

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><p><strong>Thank Our Unlucky Stars<br>**Preface:  
><span>Into the Night<span>

"What do you see?" A husky masculine voice questioned in a deep baritone that resonated in the far back of his throat.

The airplane dipped in the sky, finally sinking below the belly of the bottom layer of thick clouds. From the thick, curved window, New York's skyline could be seen against the dark night sky. "Lights," came the reply several seconds after pondering the question.

"Do they frighten you?"

An uncanny silence filled the stale air of tiny airplane, enough only to fit four, including the pilot. "No." Another pause hung in the air before the younger male answered. "I don't fear death. Nothing is greater than that and therefore nothing could frighten me." A note of stoic dryness filled the words of a man much too young to be tainted by the bitter irony of life. He should live by happiness and hope at his age. Instead, it was hollowness that forced his surly demeanor.

"Botticelli, look at me."

"How is it that one of you named me that?" a sly snap barked back as if annoyed by something. The man himself. "I know nothing of art save the bits I've researched of my namesake. It's clear to me that my purpose was never in the humanities. I am far from an artist."

The larger, burly man arched an eyebrow and a single laugh, hearty and full, escaped him from the bottom of his gut. "We didn't. It was the only word you could say when you came to us. It can be ascertained that you named yourself. Are you quite done? If I didn't know better, I'd say that it's fear that's making you bitchy."

The younger man closed his eyes, in a face of green and bowed his head. Condescendingly - that was the word he would pick for how he was treated. He had long since dismissed any part of feeling that would have him believe he was lesser for it; he simply didn't have the room in his mind for it. He was clearly not human. To anyone it would be obvious. Some would figure it was a disfigurement or birth defect. Though Botticelli's condition was neither a birth defect of humanity or a disfigurement. He was a creature of science, or that's how he rationed it - what he knew of it. Somewhere between a turtle and a human, Botticelli couldn't figure out which part he was more, but it was certainly something he'd pondered long and hard.

"I'm not afraid." Botticelli said again in the same dry deadpan, his eyes fixed on the window.

"Botticelli." the man reached over and caught the turtle by his shoulders. He gave Botticelli a twist so they were facing one another, though it was clear that the turtle allowed the man to do it without any fight. "You must mind yourself. There will be guards and likely protective measures in place."

The turtle made no indication that he heard nor didn't hear what he was being told. He could easily translate the meaning, _'be careful, we'd hate for you to fail and lose the artifact'_. He couldn't recall a time that he'd failed so badly the intended outcome wasn't salvageable. Of course the man across from him was not one of the men who had a fondness for him and therefore trust didn't extend very far. It was more likely that 'abomination' would be used to describe Botticelli by this man than something amiable.

"You know what you're looking for, yes?"

"Yes, Father Hill. I know." Botticelli replied, his eyes tipping back to the window just as the plane carefully sat down on the pontoons in a small body of water just off the bay. He stood and pulled a white hood up over his head, the cape of his cloak danced against his ankles. "I'll remind you, as I did Brother Fitz and Father Kisselhoff, you're treading on dangerous ground and possibly searching for answers to questions that shouldn't be replied to."

"If I wanted your opinion, I would ask for it." The deep voiced man, Father Hill, said in a dangerous tone clearly annoyed with the fact that any thoughtful thinking was entertained by the turtle man. "I don't."

"Well, for another opinion you didn't ask for - I'm not doing this for you." Botticelli snapped, and turned to the door that had slid open as the plane bobbed on the water like a buoy. He sprang from the open door and dove into the water gracefully.


	2. Making the Most of a Bad Time

**::Author's Note::**

In time, all will be revealed. We are just wetting the appetites of those who are willing to give this a chance by laying out some questions. Food for thought, as it were. Each piece of this will be elaborated on throughout.

Thank you for reading, as always. We appreciate it and would love to know what you think!

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><p><strong>Thank Our Unlucky Stars<br>**Chapter 1:  
><span>Making the Most of a Bad Time<span>

Night was Botticelli's closest and only friend.

He was able to move through the heart of New York City by way of every shadow that revealed itself. He could not remember being to a city like this, though he had dreams of the sounds that filled the very air around him. In fact, he dreamt of many things in brighter color and liveliness than the stifling drabness of his actual existence.

He was far from the French countryside where he'd been brought up. Raised was a word he would reserve for those who were loved, ones he'd read about in books. He studied reading, writing and certainly math under the rather harsh hand of Abbott Chaleaux in the monastery he called 'home'. His education was treated more as a challenge by the Abbott, to see if the 'dumb animal' could be taught civilized skills. The fact that he proved to be an able student never seemed to be enough for the Abbott who forever chastised him. Hated his very existence, Botticelli might call it.

The one joy Botticelli found, between his teachings and trainings, was reading in the scriptorium. With such history and character, he once in awhile found himself smiling, holding the ancient tombs of illuminated manuscripts that belonged to the church and existed in the place they were created hundreds of years before. It was, like the monastery itself, as if frozen in time for it's untouched nature and was not influenced by the world which evolved without it.

He understood the perversions of the agenda for those who he was surrounded by; his mission was clear. There was certainly corruption in the men who would call themselves servants of God. There were pure hearts there too; after all, they were just men who were capable of being fallible. Though very few treated him - an abomination - with grace or consideration to his sentient personhood. Most, instead, treated him like tool and Botticelli felt the weight of that - he was tainted by their 'teachings' as he'd felt as though he was being used most of the time. He was stronger than any of the human boys who arrived to give their lives to God, even before he was near their chronological age. As a result, he was given the task, under a man who was called Grand Master Allard, to train as a fighter - for they could use his strength.

He had been shown some softness from Grand Master Allard in the hours he spent learning to ride a horse and trained with variety of classical European medieval weaponry. His skin was tougher and didn't bruise nor cut as easily; this also proved to be a boon in Botticelli's favor and another reason his keepers found it suitable for him to be used for laborious tasks. He enjoyed the physical rigors of learning to fight - stealth and a craft that Grand Master Allard told him dated back nearly a thousand years, to a time of strife and war...a crusade, he'd called it. It was the verbal history that Botticelli absorbed as much as he did the written one, but Grand Master Allard seemed full of knowledge and was one of the few wiling to give it readily to the young turtle. He was but one of few pure souls. It was years that Botticelli trained and spent with Grand Master Allard.

The people bustling about the streets of New York were speaking in English, a language which Botticelli was forced to learn in conjunction with the French they all spoke inherently. Latin was also in the thick tomes that Abbott Chaleaux instructed Botticelli to read. English, however, seemed more substantial as it was a living and highly used language. He was high secluded, exposed to only the four walls of his cell, the few rooms of the monastery, the attached chapel as well as the several miles of land surrounding the meager building. Yet he knew that English was widely used across the globe. He had once visited Rome, secluded and hidden away - to be shown off like some token to the pope. Beyond that, his life was remarkably remote and New York was an entirely new territory.

It was exciting for Botticelli.

The lights certainly didn't frighten him; they energized him and gave him the chance to better use his skills. He pulled the white cloak around his shoulders and hid his body completely inside as he slinked along the brick wall. Across his back, a red symmetrical cross was embroidered in the fabric. It was a gift from Grand Master Allard when he'd said he could teach Botticelli no more than he'd already done. It was now on Botticelli himself to hone his skills. The fact that the young turtle, barely cresting the age of twenty, could shoot the fleas off from a dog's back with his bow or out fence his master simply because he had more energy wasn't enough for the ambitious turtle. He would forever practice in the hopes to not let Grand Master Allard's care of him go to waste. It wasn't about the training, it was about the fact that he was one of the few people who showed Botticelli courtesy. It was the least Botticelli could do in return.

"If you were ever a priest, I would officially give you the title of Chaplain. For now, honorary Chaplain Botticelli will have to do." Grand Master Allard had told him only a few short months before. "Never surrender and never be afraid to die in combat. To die a martyr is the best we can ever hope for and if you do so, fighting under this cross, you will assure your moral compass to those who might not know it simply by knowing you as I do." The memory was still vivid in Botticelli's mind.

Botticelli adjusted the cuff of the spring loaded dagger harness around his wrist that climbed up his arm to his elbow. There was a matching one fastened around his other arm. They were his favored weapons because they acted organically with his fighting. The daggers, which stayed attached to the harnesses buckled around his forearms, became eight inches of extra, razor sharp arm for him when fighting. He tested each of them by giving his wrist a flick back, the gesture itself shooting out the dangerous metal with a sharp snap. Twisting each wrist back retracted the daggers into their housing within the body of the device. They were also granted to him by his instructor, to which he'd been told they were as old as the crafts he was being taught.

Botticelli tested out the tautness of the bow sting across his chest and tapped his shoulder, where a leather strap held six arrows in a snug quiver, giving the arrows no room to move. A small sword was fastened on his hip, of which he checked too. A dozen small needle point throwing arrows lined the other side of his belt, across from his sword, each tipped with poison to stun or slow opponents. "Lets not have anyone die today, shall we?" He whispered in fluid French, after seemingly content with his inventory. With a soft hop up onto a dumpster he took the fire escape ladder and was on the roof silently, in a matter of seconds.

He surveyed the skyline and a small and rare smile crossed his face from under the hood of his white cloak. He rarely felt that free. For a minute, he considered dismissing his mission all together and abandoning the life he'd been cast into. For once, he might not be the monastic do-boy of a group who's majority had a questionable agenda.

It only took one scream for Botticelli's turmoil to be halted. He leaned over the edge of the building. Behind him, three rooftops away, was Saki Tower - his goal. That was placed on hold. He had very little experience with women yet there was a part of him that could inherently identify that scream's feminine nature. He felt aggravation shoot through him at the idea that anyone would cause harm on another, harm that would instigate such a reaction as that. One of the tiny poison tipped arrows came out of his belt and with a quick snap of his wrist, he let that four inch long spike fly. With perfect accuracy, the dart popped through the flesh of her attacker's neck and buried into his muscle half way down the body of the shaft.

A knife fell from his hand as he stumbled the second the dark pierced his body. He plucked it out like an iron splinter but it didn't stop the poison from taking its course. He jerked forward and the woman, scared, scurried back; Botticelli watched from overhead as if an aerial movie. When she looked around, including up, in her panic of wonderment in what had caused such luck for her, he jerked back. "Right - time to focus, Botticelli." He told himself, glancing over his shoulder back at the building to where he was headed. It was fortunate his attention was distracted by the near theft - it put his mind back on track for his task at hand.

Once Botticelli was on the roof of the building he'd been seeking, preparing for, he smirked and nearly jerked his hood back triumphantly. It would not be the first artifact he'd retrieved; but it would be the first in a new country. He knew nothing of Japan nor Japanese culture, save what was far outdated by the manuscripts in the guts of his monastic home. Even then, they were so far before the world was connected by more than ships that their words' validity was questionable. Still he knew what he was there for and he knew the man that had it was of Asian descent.

What he had not been ready for was an adversary on the roof. The attack was a surprise and had he been paying attention, he might have noticed it sooner. His arm came up and one of the hidden blade ejected out from it's housing with the speed necessary to save his life. It clanked into metal, protecting him from the bite of a blade, but the force threw him backward and jostled his focus. The second it took for him to regain his composure was enough to send a jolt of irritation through him too. He rarely felt anything more than sober apathy for everything but annoyance flared in him and he let it fuel his rebound.

He sprang to action with a vengeance and intent to succeed. He swung back to his attacker and went head in, immediately, at full force. Both daggers shot to life as if protruding straight from his wrists, extensions of himself. They crossed over his head and caught the blade of his attacker in the X over head. He took a swipe forward and as he did, he realized that the one he faced was not human either. His adversary had much of the same structure as himself, only - the turtle-man wore no clothes, not even a robe. Botticelli had forgone his brown burlap robe for the pristine cloak. Naturally, he deduced that this was a trap. Perhaps his keepers had known that Saki had a trained warrior similar to himself and that's why they sent him. He wondered if they were to battle it out - to the death, and this would allow for his kin to infiltrate. Was he just a diversion and now set up for death?

He wouldn't be surprised in the least.

"I'm not afraid to die, but I don't wish it. For either of us. Let me pass." Botticelli's words were thickly accented as he fought back, unwilling to yield. His opponent danced gracefully against Botticelli's swings and jabs, which were equal in their beauty - it was simply a different form of the same word, the same art.

"I'm not a killer." Retorted his adversary, blue bandana tails beat on the wind as he lunged for Botticelli. The white cloaked warrior dodged the jab easily. He followed through with a punch of his own, downward and across his body. The blue masked turtle recoiled and Botticelli saw it as red suddenly marked his green skin where Botticelli's dagger bit into his forearm. The blue turtle-man's hand closed tighter, more determined, around the hilt of his sword.

Botticelli had no time for curiosity or questioning. It was when the katana narrowly missed Botticelli's body but sliced through the fabric of his cloak that Botticelli realized how skilled his opponent was. It jerked the red cross off at an angle and nearly pulled the cloak from his body entirely. In the action, however, the hood fell back revealing his face. As it happened, the surprise that caught his opponent was enough to give Botticelli the upper hand.

"Nor am I," He whispered as the one of the poised dart's pierced his blue wearing adversary. Botticelli was holding the arm of his opponent as the shaft slipped into the soft side space between the blue wearing turtle's plastron and shell carapace. Botticelli was able to catch the turtle from crumpling to the floor, holding his dead weight up as the poison set in. "But it will keep you out of my way."


	3. Prevent This Tragedy

::Author's Note::

Thank all of you so much for your support in this story. We were quite terrified to share it as the 5th turtle and OC portion is often ill-received. We hope to not disappoint anyone in our take on it and would appreciate any feedback you may have. Soon we will have images to share of Botticelli as we have commissioned two pieces from a fabulous artist (more to come on that). For those who are interested in a visual of this brother, that is. Again, thank you for reading and we look forward to any response to our vision of this story that you may have.

Cheers,  
>Stoic Harlequin<p>

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><p><strong>Thank Our Unlucky Stars<br>**Chapter 2:  
><span>Prevent This Tragedy<span>

Botticelli didn't regret leaving his counterpart on the roof. His mind still believed the attacker to be placed there, as a trap, by Saki. He wouldn't be surprised should a man as powerful as Oroku Saki have eyes and ears at every turn. He didn't have time to consider otherwise. Though it certainly made him question what sort of secrets lurked inside the massive building. The fact that he had little room to trust as it was didn't bode well for the abandoned body of Leonardo. He had grown up without the ability to trust many, mostly as there were so few honest souls, and he therefore gave little thought to those who seemed to be a threat. In fact, Botticelli had entirely forgotten the other turtle for now. There would be a point in the future that he would commit to trying to figure out how, why and what had happened - who the other man was; the other turtle.

It was certainly a detail he wished to know more about, but part of him was anxious and apprehensive to learn about why there might be another terrapin creature running about.

Fortunately, much of the building had high ceilings that gave Botticelli a playground of beams and fixtures with which to navigate the rooms without having to actually set foot on the floor. Naturally, he started at the top floor, having to work his way down. He figured, logically, the lower floors served a more office environment; where those Saki did daytime business with saw. Here, further up, was where he did his _other_work.

In truth, Botticelli wasn't sure where he would find what he was looking for but he figured it would be well kept, and perhaps displayed by the way it seemed many of his prized items were brandished about for show. A display of power and wealth, Botticelli deduced. He knew nothing of ninjas, save the minimal amount that was expressed in their mystery by the books he read. The same was true of Japanese culture, which this particular part of Saki Tower was rife with. It was a foreign battlefield to him, but one he would adapt to nonetheless.

He bound from one beam to the next, over head, catching a hold of a simple hanging paper globe chandelier to swing across the way to the next beam. Botticelli landed silently and crouched low. It was the back and forth glow of the lantern that he waited to stop. When it did, he dropped to the ground to use the door, as it was the only time he wanted to hit the ground, if he must. There were two pocketed spots in the wall he could use to gain access to the ground without making much noise at all. The first was a hand hold created by where a decorative piece of bamboo separated the wall from the ceiling. The other was positioned so that he could place his foot - a light switch of sorts - and slip downwards silently.

He scanned the room one last time, making sure none of the ornamental cases held what he was looking for. There was a sword in a glass box, an ornate paper fan, a fancy Japanese helmet that he figured was samurai in nature and a weapon he couldn't even begin to fathom how to use. It all looked beautiful, polished...and very deadly in many ways. It was just as he managed to scale the wall once more, grabbing to the bamboo, that he heard voices and one of the sliding, bamboo doors drew back.

With a heavy thud, he witnessed two black clad warriors dump the body of his turtle adversary in the middle of the room. Botticelli cringed a little bit, the small bounce of the turtle's shell resounding off the floor. He ducked down further, holding the beam tighter as he watched, his hood falling far over his face as his neck recoiled.

He figured the man would be punished for his failure, even if Botticelli considered him a formidable foe. He didn't want to witness it, that much was certain; particularly as he didn't think it would be a just act. Botticelli knew the blue clad turtle had faltered when he saw his adversary's face and that was hardly a reason for his skill to be put in question. Perhaps his judgment, as nothing should surprise him in battle, but definitely not his talent. The warrior was highly skilled and Botticelli knew he'd taken him down when he was at a disadvantage in his surprise. He too had been surprised by another, naked, turtle; but he had not let it consume him and that was why he was on the rafter now and the other was on the floor below him.

Botticelli considered, for a moment, stopping the two in black so that he wouldn't have to witness any form of punishment, especially since he was still unconscious from the poison. It would take time to wear off, Botticelli knew that much. When he first started learning of poisons, he had nicked himself and suffered the same fate. He remembered it well; he was fifteen and careful even then. His penance had been the three days of being violently ill after he woke up six hours later, barely pricking his finger on the dart he was coating in the clear liquid that would dry on it's blade. It was enough for him to learn his lesson and one that Grand Master Allard had not had to teach him.

"Kill him now. I think we should kill him."

"Master Shredder will be furious if we don't grant him that honor. It will be praise enough that we've brought the freak to him. Killing him will only infuriate him."

"Nonsense, this way it will ensure he dies. For all the times Master Shredder has had one of these monsters in his clutches they've always escaped. He can't escape death."

Botticelli was shocked enough that his mouth fell open as he watched and listened to the exchange between the ninjas as they considered executing his opponent. Or who he had assumed was their ally. The one supporting the turtle's death leaned over and unsheathed one of Leonardo's katana and raised it up. Botticelli looked to his companion, waiting for him to stop the other. He had a task to complete and intervening would certainly hinder that job. His loyalty to Grand Master Allard and Brother Fitz was the only thing that had him poised on the beam in search of an ancient artifact for a cause he wasn't sure he agreed with.

He didn't ask for this task...and he certainly wasn't prepared to watch someone be murdered.

It was clear that Leonardo was not one of theirs and it was Botticelli's fault that he may die now. There was no question to the warrior turtle what his path was. Leonardo's katana glistened dangerously as the Foot ninja positioned himself to lop the turtle's head off. Botticelli had his bow upholstered in an instant and with precision, let an arrow fly. It was just as the ninja tightened his muscle to bring the sword down that the arrow cut through the air. There was a pop as Botticelli's arrow lanced the very forearm holding the katana. The katana clattered to the floor the second the arrow lodged itself in the meat of his arm, half sticking through either side.

Surprised, the other ninja extracted his weapon and turned to look in the direction in which the arrow had flown. It was too late. Botticelli bounded from the rafter, toward him. His cloak fanned out behind him like white wings as he dove for the second assassin. Leonardo's angel, perhaps. The Foot ninja held steady, though he gulped just as Botticelli landed square in his chest. "There will be no deaths tonight!" The turtle barked at him in warning - as if his attack was punishment for allowing there to be an attempted slaughter of the other turtle.

"But that doesn't mean I won't hurt you." Botticelli threatened as his wrist blade sprang to life, as he was perched on the man's chest. He pierced, simultaneously, the arms of the Foot ninja and with a twist of his hands, the blades separated the ninja's arm bones. It shot pain through his arms, all the way to his shoulder and down across his back. He cried out as his arms were rendered temporarily useless. The shout didn't stop Botticelli from hearing the other ninja approach him from behind. He dove forward as the ninja's katana swiped where Botticelli had been, slicking the chest of his second foe; which only brought another shout from the man with his forearms stretched and broken.

As Botticelli spun, he let loose one of the heavy throwing darts tipped with poison. It bore into the shoulder of the attacking Foot ninja, who still had the original arrow through his forearm. Though the end hand been snapped off, he wasn't brave enough to pull it through. He stumbled before falling back into a heavy and dead sleep. Botticelli glanced down at the other man. He leaned over and scooped up his fallen sword and with it, pinned the still conscious, though heavily in pain, Foot solider to the wall, through the shoulder fabric of his outfit. His arms were rendered useless for the time being, at least until the cartilage and ligaments that kept them joined could be repaired and the muscle of his arm healed - if ever.

"You will hang there and while you do, you will consider what you've done tonight. I implore you to take the fact that you've survived as a blessing and do with that as you may." Botticelli spoke, in his thick accented voice, deeply from under the bell of his hood.

His mission was at a loss, for now. He knew his primary goal would be to get the turtle man out of there as clearly he didn't belong in this place either. Where he belonged, Botticelli wasn't sure. But leaving him would be certain death if these two classless and skill-less men, by Botticelli's standards, had been low enough to even think of killing an unconscious opponent. It was most certainly the soulless instruction by man that created such hideous violence; they couldn't have been born this way. Botticelli moral compass was not challenged by those who would be livid that he had saved a life rather than steal the artifact from Saki. It was an artifact that would likely seal their hold in finding whatever they were truly after.

Botticelli carefully replace Leonardo's sword in it's sheath and hoisted him up, with some effort, and cast his unconscious body over his shoulder. With determined steps, he trudged back to the door that would lead to the roof and then safety for the naked, blue masked turtle.


	4. I Remember a Rooftop

::Author's Note::

Thanks for reading. This chapter had a few new faces (previously mentioned) and we see many characters developing. We hope it wasn't too OC heavy as we see more of Botticelli's character and the story's plot. Are you in enjoying this story thus far? We hope so and would love to hear what you think. We have some of the answers we promised but, as always, questions too. We assure there will be answers in due time. We hope these puzzle pieces are making sense for you all. Thanks again!

Cheers,  
>Stoic Harlequin<p>

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><p><strong>Thank Our Unlucky Stars<br>**Chapter 3:  
><span>I Remember a Rooftop<span>

Botticelli had no idea where to take the turtle.

His home was unknown; where would a mutant turtle go in New York City? At least in France there was seclusion in his home, tucked away in a countryside monastery. Among skyscrapers, pedestrians and city-rats, there was no telling where a turtle could hide. Every corner seemed occupied, of course no one seemed to notice anything aside from their own business so it was likely that he slipped out of view under inattentive eyes. Therefore returning him home would be impossible and Botticelli wasted little time with the idea as he knew he wouldn't succeed. If anything, it could cost he and Leonardo their lives.

That was why he dragged Leo. He was slung across Botticelli's back, the feathered tip of his arrows brushing against the underside of his plastron though Leo was unresponsive. Botticelli drudged with him through the water and up onto the plane. The engines were dead, leaving nothing but the cold and eerie stillness of a watery runway. It allowed for every slosh of water and every creak, from the weight the two oversized turtles, to echo in the silence as they got into the belly of the plane.

Botticelli climbed to his feet and jerked the heavy, wet fabric of his hood back. It was tough to see the crisp whiteness of its color beyond the dirty droplets from the murky polluted liquid that clung to the tiny fibers. "Go."

"Do you have it? The omamori." Father Hill asked firmly, frantically - like a greedy child. There seemed little concern for what Botticelli wanted - as usual.

"I said go." Botticelli demanded of the pilot, who was staring at Leo's unconscious form in a stunned horror. He blinked and looked to Father Hill. They seemed to share an instant silent conversation in mere glances, as if reaching some unspoken agreement; glances that Botticelli didn't miss. His brow ridge arched and he squared his shoulders, standing between Leonardo and Father Hill and the pilot. "No. We will come back for it. For now, we leave."

The priest's nostrils flared and his face turned slightly pink at the indication that Botticelli would give orders to anyone, let alone him. "Not with him." Father Hill nodded toward Leo's still form.

"Not _without _him." Botticelli challenged easily, his own eyes set for the verbal battle, if not physical too. "I find it peculiar that you, a human, can recognize the appropriate gender of someone who would seem androgynous to your knowledge. Yet you call him - exactly that - a him. How would you know that?"

"I assumed." Father Hill scoffed and turned away arrogantly.

"Or you're intentionally withholding your knowledge. I'm not as ignorant as you would have anyone believe, Father. If he leaves this aircraft - then I do too. I suggest you start the engines." There was an instant where they started at one another, neither willing to budge. Father Hill's nostril's flared further and Botticelli wouldn't budge until his demand was fulfilled. Father Hill, after what seemed like a lifetime, flicked a lazy hand to the pilot. A few moments later, engines roared to life and gone was the still, tension filled silence of the dead plane. All the while, a sinister smirk sat on the priest's face.

Botticelli spoke little on the trip across the ocean and the Father was hardly interested in conversation. Botticelli removed the daggers harnessed around his arms by each strap that held them in place, careful to keep from springing them into action. Gently, he dried the intricate metal design fascinated to the front plate, as well as the brace for the blades themselves, as they were caked in blood and water from his trek. Once in awhile, he would look up to where Leonardo had been situated, as best as Botticelli could arrange for what appeared to be comfort, in the seat nearest the window.

The several hour long flight gave the turtle time to reflect on what had transpired and what any of this could mean. Though the truth began to worry him. He was concerned for Leonardo, where he had lived, what he had done and why he was on the roof of Saki's skyscraper. It was possible that he was still a tool - Saki's or even of the very men that sent him there. Perhaps when Leo came to, Botticelli would have an assassin on his hands, which would also be Botticelli's doing. He hadn't much energy left in him and the idea of fighting a warrior as skilled as Leo had been, even in those few seconds, made his head pound with dread. He shook his head a little bit and glanced at Father Hill, who looked particularly sour with the arrangement.

Or, perhaps, that was simply Father Hill's way.

The plane chased the sun, following behind its rays like a lost soul finding the guidance of an angel. It made it difficult to sleep, though Botticelli didn't feel safe enough to do so while Father Hill's dagger filled eyes watched him. When the French monastery, in the rolling hills of northern France's countryside, came into view, it was mid afternoon. The plane landed in the far outskirts, rustling the foliage around it in its grand entrance. Botticelli, however, felt nothing of grandeur.

The only comment that came from the mouthy priest was the terse remark of 'you'll carry him' in regards to Leonardo's still sleeping form. A frown escaped Botticelli as he had no intention of letting anyone else touch Leonardo but him. He considered staying in the plane until Leo woke but decided against it.

He harnessed his weapons, strapping them back on his forearms in a fluid motion as if he had been doing it all his life - and he had. He then hoisted the other turtle up, carrying him across the green hills as easily as his tired body could. Botticelli addressed no one, none of the monks he knew or the young men who had come to pledge their lives to God. He brought Leonardo to the small square room he'd been granted when he was old enough to sleep without the watchful eye of Brother Fitz.

Leonardo was granted his bed, the same standard one that all the monks slept in. Botticelli carefully situated the turtle, still uncertain if he was a possible friend or certain foe. It couldn't be overlooked that he was forced to face that there was another. Another mutant like him. Another abomination. Another...turtle. The coincidence was uncanny and Botticelli knew, he _knew_, there was more to the story than he was ever told. The question was if he wanted to know the truth.

"The Abbott wants to see you." Father Hill's deep voice bounced off the walls of the empty room.

Botticelli's hand closed in a fist, hidden under his cloak - half from irritation and half from his fear of what the Abbott wanted with him. His back was to the door as he'd been leaning over the body of their guest. When he flicked around to face the man, his cloak whipped around his body in a quick snap, the fabric barking back in retaliation to Botticelli's movement. He knew what those words meant. The Abbott's request was a sure indication that Botticelli would be scolded for his failure in retrieving the omamori from Oroku Saki's building.

From the moment he had stepped on the plane, without the artifact, he knew this would come...he had been warned of it.

"This is crucial, Botticelli," Grand Master Allard had told the turtle months before he was tasked with retrieving it. It wasn't the first and it wouldn't be the last that he'd be asked to find - there were others already in the monastery's possession - but for some reason Grand Master Allard impressed upon him the importance of this particular item. "The omamori is typically considered nothing more than a Buddhist trinket with a good luck prayer inside."

Botticelli pondered the words before looking up to his teacher, curious and confused. "Is it luck you seek, Grand Master?"

The man's bearded face broke into a smile, showing a line of pretty white teeth. It was a thing Botticelli had tried to replicate before. Every time he peeled his mouth back in the attempted gesture, he felt like it was more of a grimace that would scare folk, rather than indicate that he was happy. Many things Grand Master Allard dide were superior to Botticelli - things he tried to mimic and always seemed to fail. It would take true happiness for that expression to work on Botticelli's face as it did on the Grand Master's. Perhaps, he considered, he needed to have the pure soul Allard did to achieve such happiness.

The older man gave a hearty but brief laugh. "Oh Botticelli, you have such grand _and_naive ideas about the truth - about the world. Don't take that wrong, it's refreshing. Your innocence is untainted because the morals of the outside world haven't seeped into your soul...yet. It's better that you've lived here, secluded."

Botticelli frowned. That expression he could do honestly, not in imitation. He didn't find himself innocent or naive; in fact, he fully understood the corruption of man. He had seen it all his life, read about it in history books and experienced it first hand. However, he didn't dismiss Grand Master Allard's words - he never did, no matter what ideas they formed. There had to be some truth to them as they came from a man he respected and for it he remained silent, awaiting his lesson. A lesson he clearly needed to be taught.

"It's not luck I seek. As you know, centuries ago, items were left by _someone _- for us to find. Clues. Pieces of a puzzle that will lead to the source of ultimate knowledge. The place where secrets and mysteries of the world were kept from a time before there was thought to be written history. Secrets of man, of success, that could be used. Things like explanations to how the Great Pyramids of Giza were constructed, how the Mayan civilization managed the complex culture they had in a time of dying evolutionary history..."

"Like a library?" Botticelli asked, his thoughts easily falling out of his mouth with the Grand Master, he found himself willing to express his learning processes.

"YES! A library. The clues were left in ornaments, artifacts all scattered across the globe in a variety of religious denominations. It could be anything and everything. It was as if the message was meant to be put in something people will fight the hardest to preserve. Faith, religion, belief...we will fight it to our death and therefore we will protect it too, just as the creators intended. It protected these clues for generations. We believe the omamori does have luck - only because the paper inside of the religious charm lists the instructions to _where _the location of this great library is - rather than a prayer of good fortune. Though good fortune it will bring us, though that is a mere side-effect."

Botticelli felt his heart seize, just like it had that day, as he now faced reprimand for his failure. He loved books and he loved knowledge; finding the library was important to him for it. But he wasn't sure these were the people who should have all there was to know, or even a fraction of it. He certainly didn't look forward to the ridicule that would come and how his use would be put into question by the Abbot, but more than that, he had no intention of leaving Leonardo with any of them, alone. He didn't trust their judgment and single minded approach to their destiny in life, particularly Father Hill.

Botticelli knew of monastic life that existed beyond the walls of his home. He knew that there were pious and good people who served as God's shepherds, that had the best interest of those they served at heart. There were a few of those spirits among the monks in his home - Grand Master Allard and Brother Fitz included - but many of them - descendants of those who called themselves the Knights Templar - had a grander view of their purpose. Even more than that, a morally ambiguous group of the appropriate methods to fulfil their destinies. Botticelli knew he wore their mark every time he pulled his cloak over his head, with the red cross on his back. Grand Master Allard led them, it was how he gained his title of 'Grand Master'. But Botticelli, like Grand Master Allard, believed in their cause, the original one and not the one that poisoned and tainted the men he was surrounded by now.

"Then he shall come to me." Botticelli spoke with a determined edge as his eyes locked onto Father Hill's, half shielding Leo's body. "I can't imagine you had anything to do with his beckoning me."

"He asked for a status report." Father Hill shot back with an arch of his eyebrow. A smirk lay again across the contours of his lips. "I merely informed him of the truth...what he does with it is but his business. I am just a messenger."

Botticelli considered the priest's words carefully; he doubted very little of the innocence Father Hill insisted upon. "I'm not leaving him with you. If the Abbott wishes to see me, then he must come to me. Otherwise, it must not be of that much importance."

Father Hill's nostrils flared and the daggers from Botticelli's weapons shot to existence, as if challenging the man. And in truth, he was. The priest cocked his head to the side and the sly smile grew. "Obstinacy isn't becoming on you, Botticelli. It makes you weak to your own false sense of arrogance - of grandeur." There was a tiny bit of snide in his tone, which came off highly condescending; but the priest turned to go, not willing to challenge Botticelli's skill with weapons to his own wit.

There would be a clear loser.

Botticelli had just relaxed, about to turn and sink down beside Leo's bed, when he heard a shuffle behind him. His head swung around as fast as the air whistled with movement. Botticelli ducked out of the way just in time to narrowly miss a sloppily swung katana. He was tired but not nearly as clumsy as Leonardo, who's skill was put to question by his very weakened and poisoned state. His fight, clearly, was not damaged. He was barely awake, but no part of the leader was willing to give in, that much was certain. Botticelli had to commend his effort.

"Stop." Botticelli hissed as he ducked again; this time Leonardo's strength was where he focused his power and the blade rustled the air around Botticelli's head. "Please."

"I will not be your prisoner!" Leonardo demanded.

"Would a captor," Botticelli sprang onto the bed as he spoke. He hopped forward and landed on Leonardo's back, twisting his arms under the bend of his own, thus rendering Leonardo's arms immobile from how they were pinned, "allow you to keep your weapons?" He felt Leo falter in his grasp and his knees buckled ever so slightly from his weight. The turtle had been squirming, unwilling to relent no matter how ill prepared he was to fight.

Botticelli had to focus on his English as he spoke to the other turtle. "Honey. Honey will help ease the symptoms that you will suffer from my poison. If not, you will start to feel even sicker and weaker than you already do. I will release you and fetch some, if you will agree to lower your guard."

"And why should I trust you? It was your poison to begin with. Your poison that drugged me enough to capture me. What do you want with me anyhow?" Leonardo demanded fiercely, unwilling to agree to lower his guard. In fact, Botticelli felt his muscles tighten and he jerked firmly, a single time, against Botticelli's grasp. Botticelli took it as the warning it was meant to be.

Botticelli felt his own resolve weaken a little. It hadn't occurred to him that his efforts in protecting Leonardo would be challenged. He wasn't looking for praise but he'd gotten enough opposition for Leonardo's being there that he wasn't sure he could fight the turtle himself. He had to remind himself that the last thing Leonardo knew was that Botticelli had poisoned him. "I want nothing from you, except for you to rest and recover so that we can return you to your home. Healthy and safe. I mean you no harm - for now, my word is all I have. I can only prove it in my honey remedy. What is your name, stranger?" Botticelli, in an act of good faith, released his companion's arms. He could easily pay for such a leap, but he had hope too that his trust would earn some of Leo's.

"Leonardo." The other turtle responded tentatively, jerking away and twisting to look at Botticelli head on. He looked ready to attack...should he be attacked first, again.

For the second surprise in the last day, Botticelli was stunned with his counterpart's name and its origin. The two turtles stared at one another. Leo, hesitant as to whether Botticelli's words were true, and Botticelli, stunned by the coincidence in their given names. Like his own namesake, Botticelli was well aware of the companion artists of the Italian Renaissance.

"Where did you come from?" Leo asked. "How is this possible?" He blue clad turtle's curiosity got the best of him, over his instant need to defend himself. He was still poised, though clearly weak, but ready to topple at any moment.

"Sit." Botticelli nodded to the bed. "Please, Leonardo, sit. I know little of the answers you seek, though I have the same questions for you. I am called Botticelli. It seems our similarities don't end in appearance. You should rest. The poison will upset your belly if you don't take my offer of honey. You will suffer more than a headache and confusion as to your location. I assure you."

Leo bent forward and gathered his katana, which had been dropped when Botticelli pinned his arms. Carefully, he sheathed his weapon. As he did so, his knees went weak and he sank down in his fragile state. Before he could hit the ground, Botticelli caught him around the shoulder, helping keep Leonardo on his feet. "Sit." He said again, helping Leonardo to the bed.

"Where are we?" Leo asked, with a small bow of his head and a brief thank you as Botticelli guided him.

Before Botticelli could respond, the door was filled with a commanding presence. "BOTTICELLI!" The name boomed in the small room, echoing off the surface of the walls like flames licking the stone. The turtle glanced over his shoulder and was not surprised to see the shock on Abbott Chaleaux's face. It wasn't only sprinkled with stunned repulsion, but it was also red with irritation and anger. Botticelli felt Leonardo tighten next to him, clearly on alert opposite the enraged man. Botticelli turned to the blue masked turtle.

"Please, do nothing. Say nothing. Allow me," he instructed softly to Leonardo. There was a taunt chord in his voice from the fear and worry he was trying to stifle, but Botticelli turned and stood with a slow step - prepared to receive his fate.


	5. You and All Your Broken Luck

**Thank Our Unlucky Stars  
><strong>Chapter 4:  
><span>You and All Your Broken Luck<span>

Botticelli hit his knee in an instant, head bowed low below the fat, dominating man in a brown monastic habit. His white cloak flitted out around him as he moved so quickly and the bell hood caught the air and landed gracefully on his bald head, framing his face pointed at the ground. He was nimble in his movements while the Abbot seemed to do nothing but lumber above.

"Abbot, death was upon him; by my doing. It wouldn't be right for his blood to be spilt for me. It is what was what had to be done."

"And **he** is the cause for the lack of acquiring the artifact now? _This_...**this** **_abomination_** is your excuse for failure? I won't stand for it! I have spent so much of time educating you, preparing you to be the best and this is what you have for me? What sort of selfish act is this? We are men of God, men of the monastery...therefore we must fault ourselves justly for our mistakes, not blame them on contrite excuses as you have. ACCOUNTABILITY! You, however, are in my home. I have taken you in when no one else would care less for your Satanic form and this is your repayment? Gratitude will cleanse your soul, Botticelli...perhaps you are too arrogant and too self-serving to wear those robes. You owe far more than your skill to me. Our bargain was clear and you have failed. Bring him here!" Chaleaux's chubby finger jabbed in Leonardo's general direction and boomed at Botticelli. Botticelli leaned, instinctively, closer to the ground; expecting to be lashed at any moment. "You're a _stupid_creature. A stupid and worthless creature that ought not grace this Earth. All you have done is bring in yet another hideous being and I won't stand for it!"

The turtle was stronger, by far, than the leading monk. He could, even under less than ideal circumstances, destroy him. However, it wasn't in Botticelli to be violent without a direct cause and even then it took a lot to make him attack and even more to kill. He had a strong belief in the faith he was surrounded by from the time he could remember.

It was once the huge man moved to threaten Leonardo, as Botticelli had not spoken, that the turtle leapt to action without a second thought to the consequences. He sprang to his feet and initiated the daggers at his forearm's command. With his arms splayed low at his sides, but the daggers glistening, ready for blood, he held his position between the two. He both heard and felt Leo move behind his right shoulder, equally ready for a fight in his defense.

It was then that Botticelli realized that Leonardo likely couldn't understand a word - French as it were - they'd said and was basing his actions on the body language and movement around him. "You will not harm him." Botticelli said in heavily accented English, "and should you insult him, you will do so in a language he understands."

"I **will** do as I wish, in _my_ monastery. It is **my **home that you've been allowed to remain as a guest in. You are a guest, never forget that." The Abbot moved forward, with just his hand, as if to reach beyond Botticelli and grab Leo. Botticelli's dagger whizzed through the air, slicing into space and causing a whine as the dagger cut through the fabric and drew a warning line through the meat of the abbot's fat arm. Red appeared in the dagger's wake, soaking the brown fabric dark. The fat man recoiled and hissed as he did so.

Botticelli flinched for the briefest second, but had no remorse for his defense of Leo. He had forever feared the abbot and his medieval ways. He knew the head monk would inflict the worse sort of torture on him for any foul he made, and this was an intentional attack. He had taken all of his punishments with grace and without a peep as to any pain he suffered. Never had he defied the order and those who lead it. Though he didn't know Leo, and had no real allegiance to him, Botticelli had made a promise to himself to protect the other turtle from the moment he saw the foot soldiers ready to kill him. That promise extended to those who housed, fed and clothed him should they threaten the blue masked, yet naked, turtle. It was his fault, at the root, that Leo had been in danger to begin with.

"You will regret this." The abbot warned dangerously.

"Until you make good on that promise, I will wait for the day you make it true. In the meantime, leave us and remember, without me, you won't see your life's desire fulfilled. You need me." They had rolled back into rapid French. Botticelli never found himself on the defiant end of Abbot Chaleaux's wishes, but for the first time in his life, Botticelli had cause to be. It suddenly wasn't about him and his life alone, but the safety of another who, Botticelli was sure, could just as easily slice the paunchy man to ribbons.

"We'll see how much longer you will be necessary. Do not think you are indispensable, Botticelli. You are but a spec of dirt on my foot for your importance. My desires, my life goals, do not rest on your shoulders and you would do well to mind your place. Your life long penance will come soon, and shall be in my hands or in God's." The man snapped, his eyes ablaze as his cheeks flushed with red. In a swift movement, the brown fabric moved with him and the Abbot ducked from the room, his threat lingering in the air.

"Thank you." Leo said when they abbot left, clearly aware that, in some fashion, Botticelli had defended him.

"Honey," Botticelli said gesturing to the door. It seemed Leo was confused for a moment before nodding and the abbot's presence was momentarily forgotten. It was only once Leo had followed him that Botticelli, poised with his hands behind his back, spoke further on the matter. "It's my pleasure. The least I could do for that which I was responsible. You are under my care as I made the choice to bring you to France."

"FRANCE?" Leo's eyes bulged and as his heart rate spiked, the poison in his blood pumped harder through his veins. By the face he made, it was clear it made his stomach turn uncomfortably. It was enough that he leaned forward and caught the wall but Botticelli grabbed his other arm and looped it over his shoulders.

"I will return you to your home soon. I knew not where to take you - to bring you to your own home. I was unwilling to leave you in the unfortunate care of a pair of less than respectable warriors. You attacked me on the roof. What were you doing there and why did you attack me? Here, I do not fear you and yet I keep you safe from my caretaker. Some might think that madness, but I can't help but wonder what it is, as you were clearly not working for Oroku Saki as I assumed, that you were trying to accomplish."

"Patrol." Leo sighed heavily, letting Botticelli hold his body, as he did not fight him. "I often sweep that roof, just in case something new of his doing is going on. You were perceived as a threat and, clearly, you were. Who are you? Where did you come from?"

"As I've said, I know little of the answers you request. I wish I had more details to offer - perhaps you could help me to better understand." It took all of Botticelli's focus and concentration not to be concerned with his impending punishment for his actions. He was still worried about Leo and his health.

It was when they entered a modestly arranged kitchen that Botticelli released Leo, helping him sit at one of the benches that ran along the wall. He dipped into one of the cupboards, Leo was starting to sweat and look peaky. The naked turtle even tipped his head back, a low groan echoing out of the back of his throat. He returned to his turtle counterpart and dipped a slotted bulb into the jar he'd acquired deeply and pulled forth the natural sugars. Yellow, thick honey. With a quick motion, Botticelli jabbed the wooden end into Leo's mouth and Leo had barely a second to catch the end of the stick.

It was no good; the poison had had too much time to latch onto Leo's cells and Botticelli had to leap out of the way, narrowly missing all the contents of Leo's stomach that spilled onto the stone floor. With the jug of honey still in Botticelli's hand, he moved around to the side of Leo and pulled his cloak off. He carefully situated it over the naked shoulders of his turtle companion, in a vein attempt to stop the shivering.

"You must rest." Botticelli didn't draw his arm away from Leonardo, even when the door opened. A man appeared in the doorway in the heavy brown habit worn by all the monks.

"Oh my Botticelli...what have you done now?" He asked, though his words didn't match his tone as he seemed more sympathetic than scolding. The turtle looked up, though he was still leaned over next to Leo. The turtle's head was between his knees as his stomach violently heaved regardless of there being nothing with which to expel.

"Please ready the plane, we'll leave immediately. I must return him to his home. He isn't safe here. The abbot will be furious and I feel confident that whatever his punishment may be, it will be suitable for me. I'd rather not him suffer anything for my poor choices." He looked to Leo, once more realizing that he had slipped back into French. He touched the back of Leo's neck from his position and sighed, his next words in English. "My apologies for your condition and your location. I will return you to your home now."

Botticelli helped Leo to his feet and when he came next to the friar in the door way he said, "I will also return with the omamori. At that time you will have answers for me, Brother Fitz. Though I am not sure they are answers you will find interesting...as I seem to be the only one surprised by another of my kind."

* * *

><p><strong>::Author's Note::<strong>

As many of you know, this story was a response to something that has long since baffled Harley about the naming of our beloved turtles. By accident, yet true to form, upon further reflection - Botticelli was also improperly named; as his brothers were too. In Splinter's defense, as Stoic pointed out over lunch today, they were named as babies and therefore their personalities were less than developed. We hope you enjoyed this chapter, it's been half done for nearly a month now. ^_^ Any words of encouragement or constructive criticism would be wonderful. Thank you for reading.


	6. With a Choking Regret

**Thank Our Unlucky Stars  
><strong>Chapter 5:  
><span>With a Choking Regret<span>

"Botticelli."

The turtle often heard his name, in the same questioning and hesitant tone, time and time again. It seemed not to be out of anger, but out of desperation. As if the speaker was willing to do anything, anything at all, to get Botticelli to stop and listen to him. He considered not stopping, but something about the conviction of his spirit rooted his feet to the ground. Botticelli was not one to turn away anyone, even those he wished to deem unworthy. Instead, he found himself incapable of judging anyone on such a level. He stood still, with his back to the friar who had darted back through the door swiftly. Brother Fitz swung himself around by the door frame to catch the turtle's attention in a hurry, before he could leave.

Botticelli barely tipped his head toward his shoulder, his chin was almost on his plastron, as he eyes swept back to look at the monk. There was a hint of approval, allowing Brother Fitz the chance to speak, in the passive way he offered his attention. He didn't speak, but his hand around Leo's shoulder held tighter, stronger. He could feel the other turtle still shaking under his arm. Botticelli managed juggling them both - his attention on Leo while peering at the monk out of the very corner of his eye.

"I can tell you what happened," the words tumbled from Brother Fitz's mouth clumsily, as if before his brain could compute their meaning. "I know nothing of your kin. I didn't know there were others. Not even one. You can't imagine my surprise to find just you. Be that as it may, I can tell you where you came from. Or, rather, how we found you."

Botticelli had a moment of conflict as he stood still in his spot. The invisible binds of potential truth were holding him steadfast, furthering rooting him in his place as his principals kept him firm. His head swept back to Leo and he leaned down to look at he turtle, to gauge his health. It was deteriorating, his alertness waning further, and Botticelli worried. "Was it in New York?" Botticelli asked firmly. He had been so certain that he'd never been to the Big Apple, save that one time, that it made his stomach roll with the thought that maybe the place he'd found this turtle was the center of his origin. Not because he despised the city, but because he knew nothing of it and yet he could be tied to its very core.

"Yes."

Botticelli's eyes closed and he dropped his head momentarily. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to make of all this. He was still momentarily bemused by Leo's presence, let alone a clear connection between his unfortunate guest and his own existence. He wasn't sure if it meant that there were more, perhaps they were an entire race he never knew. He simply didn't know and wondered briefly if he wanted to learn more. What he did know was that there were secrets in the church that would make the devil himself blush. Equally, any questions about where he'd come from had been riddle with mystery and immediately squished by his keepers. But why? What good could come of such guarded secrets?

"Alone?" Botticelli turned, and drew Leo with him. So much would be said if it was he they took out of a batch of others just like him.

"Yes." Brother Fitz answered softly, bowing his head slightly. "We didn't want to leave you alone in the sewer, you were far from able to care for yourself. Furthermore...it's no place for a little one.."

"What were you doing in a sewer?" the words shot from Botticelli's mouth before he'd realized he'd spoke. The accusatory tone was hardly intended, but the power of his words echoed around their ears. "No, disregard my question. There's no time for this now, nor am I prepared to entertain your story. Ready the plane, we're returning this man to his home. _His_...home. He's clearly civilized, he has weapons and speaks well - there is nothing to be gained by keeping him any longer, he surely has a life of his own to live. He won't be held hostage by the privileged and arrogant human men who run this dungeon...this **_hell_**."

"Botticelli..." Brother Fitz caught the turtle's shoulder, who paused with every muscle in his body taught and constricted from his highly alert state. He may trust Brother Fitz more than the others in the monastery, but that liberal assessment didn't extend too far beyond the most basic of ways. Right then, Botticelli felt somewhat betrayed...betrayed by the only man he found value in, betrayed by Leonardo and his fellow turtles. Perhaps even betrayed by life. Though he still had a goal in mind and that, alone, kept him from abandoning any of them.

"On the plane, perhaps, I will hear your words. The biggest misfortune of this whole sad scenario is that it took an extreme circumstance for even you, Brother Fitz, to offer any explanation. You found it necessary as to keep this from me, my origin, until I should discover it on my own. What secrets have you beneath your burden ridden soul that you find the need to unleash them now, at the hour of my awakening? Man, as a species, should be feared. There's a measure of mistrust in the mere omission which oppresses. You even oppress your own kind and make boundaries for yourselves. Man is the only species willing to commit genocide of their own brother for some reason deemed fit by..._another_man's standards. You would be so willing to sacrifice me, to hide me from that which is my knowledge to have, if it appealed to some greater good."

It was an outburst, though spoken in such soft tones and honest way, from Botticelli that Brother Fitz recoiled some. The wizened face of the older man seemed drawn, peaky for his shame and he appear small in his robes. Botticelli had reduced him to the man beneath the pious habit, a reminder that fell too often on the tip of his tongue and only just. "True, and for it - for the misgivings of man - I can only pray."

Botticelli offered a single nod that doubled as a bow of his head. "As will I. Hopefully one of us will be heard."

* * *

><p>It was only after the plane had taken off, Father Hill pompously situated in one of the seats, that Botticelli actually considered hearing what Brother Fitz had to say. Fitz was an uncommon passenger as he rarely left the monastery, at least as far as Botticelli knew; but all things the turtle <em>thought <em>he knew were coming into question.

He had dressed a semi-conscious Leonardo in a brown monastic habit and reclaimed his cloak. He had spent time caring for Leo, making his body comfortable in his sickly state. Leonardo was under Botticelli's watchful eye until he'd finally dozed off, only partially aware of his surroundings to begin with due to the poison.

"Your story Brother Fitz," Botticelli sank to his knees in front of the monk, "perhaps now would be a good time to tell it as now I am willing to entertain."

The monk was watching Leonardo as he slept, though he saw Botticelli move from the corner of his eye. He sighed heavily as he turned to face the terrapin. "Yes, perhaps it would." But he was cut off by Father Hill who cleared his throat with the obvious intention to interrupt them.

Botticelli glanced at the priest and even Brother Fitz's attention moved to the malcontent Hill. "I doubt very much that whatever tale you're planning to regale, friar, is one for the creature to hear. Silence is preferred most, particularly as we embark on yet another journey in which Botticelli will likely fail. _Again_."

Botticelli didn't move to threaten the priest but Fitz reached out and touched Botticelli's shoulder lightly. The turtle looked at the fair skinned, long hand on him and managed keeping his head bowed after catching a glimpse of it. He knew that there were about to be words exchanged and part of him considered requesting that they stop before it even started.

"Firstly he's not a creature - that word is defined by man but he is most certainly a creation of God. A spirit as pure and bold as Botticelli could not have come from the hands of anyone but. Therefore, you will respect his place in this world as he has earned it as much, if not more, than you have. Secondly, whatever I have to tell him is my business. It is a decision I will make and should you wish not to hear it, then I advise you to cover your ears," Fitz spoke softly but with a sharp edge that was definitive in nature. It was partially a defense on Botticelli's behalf, to prove that he'd heard and understood what the turtle said before they'd left the monastery. Hill merely snorted and glanced the other way arrogantly. Clearly he wasn't intimidated by the monk's display of valiance. At least, Father Hill thought, mockingly, that it was a faux show of valiance. Nothing would endear the turtle to him, either of them.

"Good." Brother Fitz eyes landed on Botticelli, ignoring the priest as the man fell silent, "It was a little over twenty years ago now..."

_"FITZ!" Gerald Hill - young, virile, and newly conferred from seminary - called to the monk in a hushed whisper. He waved his hand like a beached dolphin's flipper, as if that would make the youthful monk move faster. Brother Fitz, in the crook of his arm, cradled a Vodun fetish. The alarms were ringing throughout the museum and the night security lights were strobbing enough to give an epileptic thief a seizure._

_"GO GO GO!" François Fitzgerald barked in the same hurried murmur as he skidded on his knees next to the priest. Father Hill grabbed the monk by his arm and hoisted him up to his feet and then down into a sudden hole in the ground. "You're sure they won't find us?" There was a wild look in his eye as he swooped around to look at their third companion._

_"Positive. These passageways are riddle with maze-like qualities. You got it! Fitzy, you got it. Gerry, come! Make haste!" The third man, Abel Chaleaux, was eager and energetic to the point of spastic. He was the only of them that donned the white cloak of the Templars. For him, the young men worked to retrieve the necessary artifacts. For him, they were loyal. "My brother will be most pleased." Abel, thin and tall, brushed the object in Fitz's arms._

_The monk pulled it closer to his chest. "Yes, if abbot Chaleaux was half the man you are, he might find that this crime, for the greater good, is a success. A victory in the eyes of a power far higher than the abbot himself." _

_"Oh Fitz, you have nothing to worry about. Hubert means well." The young monk knew this to be true, at least to the younger bother of a menacing clergyman, with a heart of stone. Fitz was sure that one day abbot Chaleaux would show his true colors for all to see. In the meantime, the monk would be happy to be in the company of his energetic and morally white sibling. There was a reason, Fitz was sure, that the Templars had overlooked Hubert and granted the younger Chaleaux his white cloak instead._

_"Next time the adventure will be yours, old friend," Hill landed in the three inch deep sewer water, splashing it on the other two, as he clapped Abel firmly on the shoulder and gave him a friendly and firm shake. "You left us to the fun above. I think he just likes to see you sweat, Fitz." Father Hill laughed._

_Pompous, arrogant...Fitz could think of innumerable other names for the priest; but the conscious part of his brain kicked in and he felt his cheeks flush with humility. It wasn't becoming to think such negative things about his companion._

_"Nonsense," Abel dismissed Hill's comment jovially as he reached to Fitz. "May I?" When the small yet weighty stone jar, shaped like a bulbous fertility goddess, transfer hands, they started to move down the sewer. "She's beautiful and we will certainly find a place, her place, among the others."_

_"What about the omamori? When will we go for it?" Hill picked up his pace and tried not to sound too eager. "We are already here, why not capitalize on our location?"_

_Abel's eyes were still on the jar but he spoke to them both in a bleak tone. "Final, therefore - not soon. It will be the last object we hunt. It will be the most grand key to our life's work...the final piece of a puzzle that has so long plagued us."_

_Fitz was only half listening to their idle chatter as he was more focused on if they were followed or not. He was tired and this sort of thing was not why he'd given his life to God in servitude. He didn't mean to steal, yet somehow that's what he was doing as of late. "Wait!" He caught Abel's arm and both men swung around. "Do you hear that?"_

_Hill opened his mouth but Abel slapped a hand over his gaping maw. "Silence! Yes...I hear it. What is that?'_

_It was a peep - almost like a squeak - steady and constant. Fitz didn't answer, though he was sure he'd heard Hill ask if it was an underground alarm they'd tripped. He stopped at a long run off drain with a swirling, vortex-like pool in the center. A heavy flow of run off was sloshing down into the pit below. Amid the whirling pool below, a tiny creature fought the current. Occasionally, the little turtle's head would crest the surface and he squealed with all his might, only to be sucked under again._

_Abel, in a swift motion, jerked his cloak over his shoulders and with a quick flick of the fasten, it dropped onto the ground. He dove in, without a second of hesitation. A mere moment later, he surfaced with the young turtle in one arm and the jar he'd forgotten to discard in the other. He hauled back and pitched the jar up to Father Hill's waiting and eager hands. With his free hand, he climbed back up to the brick walkway. He held the tiny turtle close to his chest, shocked to find it was coughing and clinging to his shirt with two fingers and an opposable thumb._

_"Hi there little guy," Abel smiled at the turtle. He reached over and scooped up his cloak, wrapping the turtle in it. "I think it's sentient." He glanced up at Fitz and Hill with a wide eyed expression of awe._

_"Throw it back," Hill mumbled, entirely disinterested in the tot._

_"I can't do that," Abel responded, smiling down at the child who was now cuddled comfortably and warmly in his cloak. "What shall I call you?" He mused. "Murielle, I enjoy that name. Or Michel if your a boy."_

_"Bo'chelli," the turtle spoke back to the three men - it was seemingly the only word he could say as. "Bo'chelli!" he repeated eagerly. From there, he rambled it in a variety of other ways; eager to be warm and comfortable in the trappings of Abel's Templar status._

"I don't remember a man of the monastery by that name." Botticelli thought deeply for a moment before he confirmed his words with a sharp shake of his head. "I don't recall the abbot having a brother, I would have remembered him if he did." Botticelli tried to hide his shock.

"That's because the abbot won't attest to Abel's existence. Yet it's his cloak you were given by the Grand Master. Quite fitting that the swaddling clothes you were donned in when we found you are the same you wear now. He was very fond of you, unto his death. He would be proud to see you in his garb. It's fitting."

"I don't think that cloak fits you half as well as it did he," Hill's nostrils flared and his face was pink with irritation. His attention had been on the story that Fitz was telling once it started. Clearly he remembered that day; and remembered it well.

"Have I wronged you? What have I done to deserve this hatred?" Botticelli could not recall a time he was comfortable, not in anyone's hold, but Fitz spoke as if he was happy when bundled in Abel Chaleaux's arms. More than anything, he tried to keep his discomfort low in regards to Hill's distaste for him.

Fitz, however, intervened before Father Hill could speak. "You did nothing. Though, Abel died defending you. Perhaps some of his spirit rubbed off on you through his acts or his cloak?'

It didn't matter how soft and gentle the words came from Fitz's lips, Botticelli felt like he'd been smacked with a sledgehammer, right to the side of his head. His ears were still ringing and his twisted stomach tightened. He willed himself to remain composed but he was sure his brow ridge crinkled together between his eyes, outwardly showing his discomfort. He still couldn't help, with Leo situated in the chair breathing heavily, thinking that there was more to this story than even the monk knew.

* * *

><p><strong>::Author's Note::<strong>

Hello dear readers. There are several things that I think need to be said. First, we commissioned two pieces of art be done for Botticelli by the amazing Sneefee. You can see the turtle himself here (replace the [DOT] with a . ((period)) and take out the spaces of course - for easier access check out our profile):

http : / / i1223[DOT]photobucket[DOT]com / albums / dd505 / stoicharlequin / Botticelli131122[DOT]jpg  
>http :  / i1223[DOT]photobucket[DOT]com / albums / dd505 / stoicharlequin / Botticelli131121[DOT]jpg

There is a great deal of gratitude that goes out to Snee for these pictures. /bow We are working on getting another of one of the action scenes between Leo and Botticelli from an earlier chapter. We also will be doing a few one shots soon based on a couple of Snee's works. Again, a big thanks to Snee for...well, everything!

Next, there has been some Assassin's Creed question. I want to address this question. Though I will admit, while watching my husband play - in passing - the game, I was inspired. This story is NOT based on the game, Botticelli's garb was inspired by it. Mostly I wanted to use the nifty daggers. That is as far as the connection goes. I have learned, through social memes, that there are some Templar intrigues in this particular game. I, however, have long since wanted to write a story built on the Templar mystery; going on over 10 years now, since I first learned of the Rennes le Chateau mystery. This story does not apply to that topic either, it's merely a source that made me want to tackle, in my own way, the topic of Templars.

Naturally, Stoic agreed to all of this as she's been (as she always does) co-writing this with me. I simply wanted to address any misconceptions or question. If there's anything else, please don't hesitate to ask.

As always we appreciate you reading and we would love to hear any comments you have. This chapter was quite fun for us, and it's chock full of important preliminary answers you may be seeking. Again, thank you for reading. Please, if you would be so kind, we'd really like to hear anything you have to say.

-Harley


	7. At Every Turn It Keeps Getting Darker

**Thank Our Unlucky Stars  
><strong>Chapter 6:  
><span>At Every Turn It Keeps Getting Darker<span>

There was little in Botticelli's life in which he felt the need to question. He was taught, early on, that questions were but a curiosity far more disastrous than helpful. He had been over that particular craving for many years, upon the lesson thought so essential to his early life. Though there was a time, when he was younger, that he desperately wanted to know where he'd come from. How he'd come. Why he'd come. He was no different than any other child, human or not, that wished to know more about his purpose. Where most kids asked of their origin and were often lied to about a bird carrying them above the clouds, Botticelli wished to know too what sort of creature brought him here. The innocence of a child seemed to always be wasted on that of adult wisdom.

Brother Fitz had been the only one who offered any reprieve from the other monks who dismissed him with no more than a few words. Looking back, he figured they hadn't meant to be terse or heartless. Instead, their knowledge didn't extend any further than his own regarding the number of questions he could have asked about himself. Therefore the 'you shouldn't ask such things Botticelli' or the 'you are too curious for your own good, child' were not intended to be harsh, but merely their way of saying 'I don't know'.

To that of a young Botticelli, they were the locks to doors he must not dream of opening.

Brother Fitz offered solace, though no answer. He had always said 'God's will has a purpose, though we may not know it. Instead, we must trust Him and only then shall we know'. For young Botticelli, it had been enough and it had been what he'd relied on to get through those phases, those questions, in his life. Now, it was as if all of those questions bubbled directly to the surface and cracked through his plastron, spilling proverbial blood everywhere. Years of locked doors rattled against their confinement, begging to be open and Botticelli but helpless to begin. He certainly felt like he was hemorrhaging, he just wasn't sure what.

His eyes turned back to Leonardo.

His head bowed as he focused his breathing to keep from panting in his clear emotional distress. He was responsible for someone's, perhaps the only that had ever shown him love, death. What sort of life had he already led as a young turtle that warranted the death of a man? What was he doing in that swirling pool and what could have been done differently to spare Abel's life, that perhaps might have left Botticelli with his life prior? Was the creature he was now, his existence, more important than a pure spirited man willing to die to save another?

For a moment, it made him curious about what Leonardo had been through. There were scars on his shell and his plastron, even his arms, legs and face. He had attacked, in their first meeting, without batting an eye and even maintained a sense of poise and grace when he was suffering - Botticelli knew how much - from poisoning. He was strong and had conviction unlike Botticelli knew, obvious traits from the brief interaction they'd had. A second past where he too stood in Leo's battered but strong body, leading a different life...a better life? What was better?

Their names, he was certain now, were no coincidences. He merely mused, as it was clear that Leonardo had no knowledge of him either, how they'd ever been in the same sphere.

"It doesn't matter," Botticelli finally spoke, though his words were out of context for his thought processes had been his own.

"Pardon?" Fitz asked, his wiry and gray eyebrows drawn close together.

With new resolve, Botticelli climbed up and went to Leonardo. "I have done my part. My best. It is time to put the past, forever, behind us. It does not matter what has happened, only what will come next." Brother Fitz's lips parted in surprise, as if he were about to protest. Even his hands gripped the arm rests of his seat and he lifted himself some, to stop Botticelli. Instead, a voice pierced the air first.

"And still, you feel nothing," Hill remarked snidely, with a hint of disdain. "But the monster you have always been, from a lagoon as black as the heart God gave you. It should have been you in Abel's place. Chaleaux is right to consider you a tool, never a man."

Botticelli took the verbal blow with grace and didn't even acknowledge the priest's words. It was Fitz who wore a look of horror, his eyes round as he turned sharply to the father. "You're a fool!" the monk hissed, though the rest of his words were lost on Botticelli.

Hill's words were still ringing in his mind. He did feel, and what he felt, he felt greatly - passionately. His declaration of leaving the past, his questions, behind him was more a matter of hope and goal than actuality. As much as he dreamed of forgetting his origin, or that nagging feeling beneath his chest, it grew stronger and more violent. More than anything he wanted to know the truth, but he didn't want to let any of those pains or wounds cloud his judgments or infect his mission. Leonardo was still under his care; once he'd returned the turtle to his rightful place, he could - in private - indulge in his wonderment of what happened. _Commiserate_.

"Sleep well, Leonardo." Botticelli wished the other turtle, placing a light hand on his shoulder. With that, Botticelli curled up in his own chair and pulled his cloak up under his chin and fanned it out across his body like a make shift blanket. Though his intention was to sleep, he figured that option would evade him.

* * *

><p>Sleep didn't come easily, as Botticelli expected, but he managed a few short sleep-like naps. He was up when the plane landed in a bay, just outside the city. Leo was still very sick, but more alert than before as his eyes had finally opened. He looked uncomfortable in his habit, but he didn't complain; in fact, he said little. For every time he tried, from the sway of the plane on the water, it seemed like his empty stomach might heave again. He looked even greener than the deep seated pigment of his skin.<p>

It had taken Botticelli's help to get Leo to the city as Leonardo was in no shape to carry himself. It was clear, by the flare of the turtle's nostrils and the tenseness of his muscles, that he was not happy with it. Botticelli, however, was careful to be discrete in his aid. He made little indication of any effort to help, allowing the illusion that Leo could do this on his own despite being guided down along dark alley ways.

It wasn't because Leo wanted to that he lead Botticelli to the lair, it was because he knew he had no other choice. He hadn't even been able to climb down into the sewers by himself; his body was too weak. Instead, he had had to hold onto Botticelli's shell while the other descended the ladder.

"What's in that poison of yours?" Leo mumbled with a somewhat impressed, though heavy lidded, glance toward Botticelli.

"A recipe of my own," Botticelli said to the other. As they walked the way, Leo guiding him, Botticelli wondered if this was where he was found. He wondered if he'd been in his particular duct before, or walked on that ledge. He couldn't remember any of this. Nothing about it was familiar from a memory stand point. Smells and sights and sounds were meant to jog the brain but Botticelli recalled nothing. In fact, the first memory he could wrangle, that he could put to focus, was the grassy French countryside in spring with Brother Fitz picking wild berries for the monastery.

"Works." Leo commented with an uncomfortable grunt.

"Trust me when I said I knew your pain. I once lanced my finger when I'd first developed it." He spoke slowly and pointed as not to let his words be drown in the thick French accent.

Leo nodded. His bowel gave a rumble and Botticelli cringed for the other turtle, further knowing the discomfort he would suffer for hours longer. "Honey will help still. Have you any honey in your home, here in the sewers?"

Leo, for a moment, was affronted but only partially; as if Botticelli were insinuating anything about his home when the other turtle lived practically in servitude. It passed quickly as Leo was reminded that Botticelli had defended him, more than once. He had heard nothing of the story Brother Fitz explained in his fever and foggy headed state, nor did he know of what truly happened at the Foot Headquarters. If it had been the case, Leo would have come to deduce much more than Botticelli had, for he knew of the living arrangements for he and his family.

"Here." Leo paused at what seemed to be a plain brick wall, with no distinguished markings. Botticelli looked at the facade curiously and then back to Leo, who reached up and plucked one of the pipes, which was attached to a door latch-lever, down. Botticelli's hold around Leo's body, from the arm over his shoulder, tightened - ready for anything.

"No...no Botticelli. This is my home. It's safe." Leo spoke to Botticelli's unspoken reaction.

The white cloaked turtle nodded and moved to help Leo inside. "It's here that we part ways, Leonardo. I have done my due diligence. You're safely returned to your home. God's speed to you." He tipped his head down as he moved to deposit Leo on the couch, entirely prepared to leave the turtle. He had tried not to let his eyes sweep the lair and take in all the odds and ends. It certainly appeared as if Leo could live here quite comfortably.

It was as he took one step away, back toward the door, that he heard it.

The soft buzz of metal cutting through the air caught his attention and he ducked just in time to miss a sai to the head. His attacker had sprung from a level above him, flinging himself wildly at Botticelli with the intention for blood.

"Raph!" Leo choked and sat up, but it was too late. The hot head was in feral attack mode, no doubt from the worry that had plagued the Hamato family with one of their own missing. His return, under this stranger, meant one thing to the wildly reckless Raphael._ Danger_.

Botticelli had bounced back, his own fighting stance at the ready; but Raph's hits were hard and fast. The thing that Botticelli noticed was that his attacker was sloppy, choosing force in his clearly emotion driven attacks. "I don't want to hurt you," Botticelli spat out sharply, both of his favorite and most prized weapons springing to life from his wrists. His mind was on defense. This was the home of a man he meant to protect. Never had he considered it may be a trap. Not until then at least. Even so, Botticelli's return attacks were in the measure of deflection to Raph's sais.

"Oh yeah? Tell that t'my brother ya just dumped on the couch. Didn't want to hurt 'im either, didja?" Raph roared, thrusting forward. Botticelli's dagger pinged off the center shaft of Raph's weapon, averting the sai. That, however, did not discourage the red-clad turtle. Instead, it only seemed to infuriate him more and make him dive forward with a vengeance that grew stronger and stronger. Botticelli volleyed every one of Raph's swings, all the while bouncing backward.

"Stop this. I mean no harm!"

Leo's protests, albeit weak, were deafened by the sound of metal on metal. Botticelli's heart was racing as Raph's attacks came faster and stronger, but with a certain amount of sloppy execution. He knew he had to act, and fast, or this was going to go on indefinitely. With a hearty downward jab, he caught Raph's sai in the outside curve between the center shaft and the curved metal, with his own blades. The force jerked one of Raph's wrists back and completely disarmed him with the other hand. "I mean you no harm!" he shouted again, unaware that Raph would not take that sort of treatment as a defeat. Nor was he ready for Raph's back up.

The tussle had brought Mikey and Don from the lab, where they'd been taking about whether or not Leo was actually missing - _yet_. Both were on their toes and ready to blindly and unquestioningly help their sibling with an intruder present. Don's bo caught Botticelli under the chin from behind, just as Raph's weapon clattered to the floor. The turtle reached up, gripping the wooden staff that was crushing his windpipe as Don's weapon tightened, pinning Botticelli's shell to his plastron. Botticelli gave it a pull but found his attacker to be formidable and firm in his grip.

Michelangelo was at the ready too, flinging himself forward but Botticelli had already moved. With a twist of his wrist, the dagger attached to his arm sliced into the meat of Don's forearm with a hearty bite. It didn't cause him to release the bo staff, but Don's grip faltered and the wood slipped in his grasp. The resistance was eased, giving Botticelli the fraction of a second he needed in order to duck under the weapons and roll forward under Mikey's flying kick, which landed square in Don's chest instead. The two went end over end with a heavy thud that splintered the coffee table they crashed into.

Botticelli's eyes lifted to see only the red of Raph's bandanna, which matched the rage flaring in his eyes. He had gathered his fallen weapon and was fully prepared to attack. He sprang on Botticelli, who threw himself forward, narrowly missing Raph's sais drilling into his skull. In a quick motion, Botticelli had hopped to his feet and bound up the arm of the couch Leo had been placed on, and sprang to the second level, jerking himself up over the railing.

Raph was ready to charge him, like the bull that seemed to replace the turtle. But a pair of twin katana, from a panting Leo, slapped into Raph's weapons in warning. "Stop!" Leo gasped. He was wheezing and with it, Raph's eyes turned wildly to his fatigued brother.

"Whadya mean stop! This guy's attacking you and you want me to stop?" Raph snapped, though his arms fell loosely to his side as he obeyed; his attention on Leonardo only. The sickly turtle swayed some, his katana falling to his side too as he blinked hard. Botticelli was not forgotten, but Raph's attention shifted instantly. He caught Leo under the arms and held his weak body up as a secondary source of stability.

"He's okay, Raph...he's okay."

Raph's muscles tightened, but he appeared petrified - as if carved from marble, save for the slight tilt of his head up to Botticelli on the landing above. They locked, momentarily, in silent stares. Raph had noticed he was of similar shape and that he was a turtle, but it didn't come to his mind to question it, internally, until that moment.

"Botticelli."

Raph and Leo's heads bend toward each other as they swept back to look behind them. Mikey, helping Don - who was nursing a wounded arm - to his feet glanced over his shoulder and Don peeked back at the voice of their sensei.

Botticelli stood firm in his spot, but his eyes moved to the rat - poised and statuesque. Both of his hand were perched on his walking stick as he remained situated at the top of a set of brief stairs that led up to a room masked by a Japanese screen. Botticelli's recent dismissal of revisiting the past, how this new addition would know his name, was a thing he reminded himself of before springing over the banister and landing silently on the floor next to Raph.

Botticelli glanced to the other turtle, who's eyes were still full of rage, but question, at this point, lingered beyond. Even Leonardo seemed curious. The others were oddly silent, but offering each other mute words in mere looks.

"Botticelli?" This time Splinter's voice wavered the slightest bit and his whiskers flicked. His word was a question rather than a statement, but only just.

"Yes." Botticelli responded, his chin lifted and his eyes set on Splinter, but he made no move to question how the rat might know such a thing. He spoke carefully, to ensure he used the right words in his thickly accented voice. "I have returned Leonardo to the place he considers home as I promised. I have done my part. I owe you nothing more and have no interest in why I was attacked nor how you know my name." Botticelli held fast in his position and made no apology for his return attack.

Though he bowed his head a moment later and spoke to Raphael softly, "Honey will ease his symptoms."


	8. Into the New York City Night We Crawl

**Thank Our Unlucky Stars  
><strong>Chapter 7:  
><span>Into the New York City Night We Crawl<span>

"Sensei?" Don muttered cautiously, trying not to wince from the pain in his arm as he questioned their mentor. Their teacher. Their father.

Botticelli could hear the reverence in Don's voice though he couldn't see it on his face as his head was still bowed toward Raphael. They all respected this man, this rat; Botticelli could tell by their mere postures and how they all stopped when he arrived.

The rodent held up a hand to Donatello patiently as if to silently ask him to hold his questions for now. Splinter's eyes did shift to the red, slippery liquid spread across his son's arm and the drops on Michelangelo's plastron caused by using each other to climb from the mess of splintered wood.

"Leonardo, yes, he is returned. However, perhaps you could explain how he was missing to begin with. It's not you alone that has questions and, as unlikely as it may seem, the answers to our questions are welcomed. Sought, even." Splinter moved down next to Donatello and Michelangelo. The orange wearing turtle was looking at the other's wounded arm.

Botticelli held in his spot for a moment and his fists clenched briefly. Time was short but the need, the craving, to know more peaked and he bit into his tongue. It was more than his own personal desire that rooted him - he could suppress his unnecessary urges. Instead, it was the understanding that their questions were equally unanswered that had him hesitate in departure. He felt obligated to fill as many holes as he could.

"Let me see it," he suddenly moved forward, took Donatello's hand, attached to the uninjured arm, and pulled him down so they were kneeling across from one another. Botticelli heard rustling behind him and Leonardo's familiar voice speak in a hushed whisper, _"don't interrupt, Raph"_. Botticelli didn't acknowledge the light reprimand behind him.

"Clean cloth, and water. _Chaud_ - ooooh...what I mean to say is hot. Thread...ahh...a needle and something to make fire," Botticelli spoke to Michelangelo, his eyes set on the orange clad turtle as he rattled off his requests. Mikey seemed to focus hard for a moment, his eye ridges scrunched together as he tried to wade through the thickness of Botticelli's accent. He nodded in eventual understanding. "And honey for Leonardo!" Botticelli called after Mikey, who'd nodded to each request with a determined look of concern. He skidded to a halt at Botticelli's final words, but didn't turn back - just nodded firmly again.

Leo's stomach rolled at the mention of honey. Last time the sweet liquid hit his tongue, it immediately came right back out.

"Have you done this before?" Donatello's voice was raised slightly as he realized what those items, in conjunction, likely meant Botticelli was going to do. He even squirmed uncomfortably as Botticelli examined his wound intently. Normally, he was the one doing their minor medical procedures and Don fully expected Leo to care for him. The purple donned turtle glanced up to Leo who was still waving back and forth weakly in Raph's arms. He couldn't treat it himself and Leo was out of the question. Don considered the possibility of walking Michelangelo through what would need to be done, but Botticelli's intense gaze was set on his face and Donatello felt his chin tuck down some.

"Many times. My keepers ascertained that physical training was most effective when real wounds were a possibility...usually a likelihood. One learns to stay out of harms way much faster when bruises and lacerations are common," he responded, letting his eyes drift back to Don's arm. It was in a plain way that he explained his situation and without any intent for more discussion on the matter. He was merely offering Donatello his credentials and where his education was formed - that being first hand.

Botticelli placed his hand over Donatello's wound and pressed hard, but with care to how it would cause him pain. With his palm pressed into the hot wound, he spoke further, "I cannot deny that this wound is by my fault and therefore neglecting it would be wrong," he consoled Donnie before speaking further. "I have no answers for you," his eyes swept passed Don to the old rat mere steps away."And I meant truth when I say that I mustn't stay. I have a task of great importance that I must finish."

"You can't go back there," Leo's voice came out with force, more than perhaps his body had in that moment. He'd jumped to the conclusion that Botticelli must mean Saki tower. "I would also like some answers, like what this task at Saki's tower is and how I ended up in France."

"Why's Leo get to have all the fun?" Mikey had just returned and was placing the items next to Botticelli. The orange masked man let his eyes flick to Botticelli. He seemed an enemy only moments before but Michelangelo was quick to embrace a new face, particularly when both Leo and Splinter seemed remarkably comfortable with him. "I want to go to France." He had no idea the contents of the conversation but the part he'd heard, just as he returned, seemed to be enough to inspire Mikey to cheerfully lament their leader's often more exciting life.

"I had no understanding for where you might belong. I meant no harm to come to you but I assumed you were one of Saki's."

"One of what?" Raphael cut Botticelli off before he could go forward with his story and his words. A mocking laugh rumbled in the back of his throat, though Splinter's ears flattened at even the mention of the Asian man. "Ya gotta be kiddin' right? Us? Leo...with da Shredder?"

"Why exactly should I have known otherwise? He attacked me initially, what more was I to assume?" Botticelli stated simply. "Though I left Leonardo on the roof after our sparing, it appears now that he and Saki are enemies."

"Ya could say that again," Raph mumbled snidely and Leo flashed his brother a warning glare.

Botticelli continued, "I did not know that at the time. Once inside, I learned otherwise. Two of his soldiers were prepared to murder Leonardo, of which I felt responsible for. I hope those two men repented and considered the outcome of their actions."

"Doubtful if they were Foot Clan," Don commented somewhat bitterly to him. His attention moved to Mikey who'd been surprisingly quiet. That could mean nothing good. "What are you doing, Mikey?" Don asked.

It was too late, however, as Mikey cheered, "DONE!" He'd taken the roll of gauze that he retrieved with the other items, and pulled out a long swatch. With the surgical scissors he'd also collected from the 'first aid cabinet' in Don's lab, he'd cut two holes in the fabric. Holding his project over his head with pride, like a relic of great importance, he grinned widely at Botticelli.

With Botticelli's hands busy holding Don's wounds, he couldn't stop Mikey. Not that he would want to interrupt his zeal. The energetic turtle looped around Botticelli and pulled the makeshift mask over Botticelli's eyes and tied it firmly in the back so he now wore the white 'mask'. "There! Now you're one of us."

"Michelangelo." Splinter scolded softly.

"It doesn't make me uncomfortable." Botticelli spoke quickly, softly, to ease any trouble it might cause for Mikey. On the contrary, Botticelli felt one corner of his mouth turn up at Mikey's attention and concern for him. It was rare that Botticelli was recognized as his own being and therefore because Mikey had done it for him, and him alone, Botticelli felt special. "Thank you," He nodded to Mikey who grinned widely.

"Don't mention it! Gotta love the digs," he pointed to his own mask. "What's up with the Assassin's Creed hitchy-dos," Mikey gestured to Botticelli's arms and then up to his own face, "and Templar hood? You got it wrong bro, Assassins and Templars don't mix."

"Ignore him," Donatello commented, "we can only apologize so many times before we just have to give up." But he shot Mikey a half hearted grin.

"I don't understand. I'm certainly no assassin, killing...I prefer not to." Botticelli looked to Donatello helplessly and then to Splinter, hoping one would decipher what Mikey was speaking of.

"Games. He plays too many games an' watches too many movies." Raph interjected.

The fact that there were Templars involved had made Botticelli go rigid as if they _knew_ what task lay before him, what his keepers were looking for. It had not occurred to the turtle that it was society's sensationalism of everything conspiracy theory oriented that had Michelangelo going off on an excitable tangent. Nothing about what Botticelli knew of his 'family' could be romanticized, save the history only recently placed on his conscious. Abel Chaleaux. The thought made him shrug so the cloak fell further in front of him, reminding him that it had once belonged to a great man.

Botticelli had started to work on Donatello's arm and it was in a matter of minutes that he had the wound cleaned and closed. It was, as he had said, through experience that he managed to do so. He was wrapping the thick of Don's forearm with the gauze and he said. "Wine would help this."

"What?" Don asked and Botticelli glanced up once more, their eyes meeting briefly.

The small, hint of a smile on Botticelli's lips remained. "I have found that wine helps numb the pain from battle once in awhile."

"Oh." Don blinked and looked down at his snuggly wrapped arm. "Alcohol makes it difficult to focus and I have enough trouble with keeping myself on one task at a time as it is. But, um, thanks for the advice. You...really come from France?"

"No." Splinter and Botticelli spoke the same word in the same moment. Botticelli didn't look up from the water, where his fingers were dipped, turning pink in the bowl.

"Botticelli. Surely you must see the similarities. Your brothers, Leonardo, Raphael, Donatello, and Michelangelo, were with you when I discovered you. Five, there were five; until," Splinter's ears folded down once more and his whiskers flatten against his face in same, "you were four. I lost one. Scavenging for food and when I returned...there were four. You were not abandoned...you were truly missed and mourned. I thought you to be dead."

"Why did you never tell us, master?" Leo had straightened in his spot.

"It wouldn't have mattered." Botticelli answered before Splinter could. "I was gone by then, taken by man. Humanity doesn't understand that which isn't just as they are and therefore, rather than celebrate it - they fear it. They are timid and scared creatures as such, and that fear makes them hostile and aggressive. My only wish is that they would learn to love variety. I will continue to fight for it and do my best not to resent them for it. That is my lesson in life, the thing I struggle with the most. You should not fault your master, your sensei as you call him, for his intent to protect you. Consider it the gift it truly is. You would never have found me, no matter how you tried," Botticelli said to Splinter, "I have spent my life in France.

"I will return to France when this ends. I do not hold you responsible for whatever caused this myriad of events to unfold." Botticelli rose, "But you should know, it takes more than a few words and a chance meeting to make family. It seems like you five have achieved that, I have witnessed it - you defend one another blindly. It's admirable." His fingers brushed the white woven fabric across his face. "I'm honored to have met you and regret to say I will never know the same. After all, I was the threat to this family; I was on the receiving end of that strong bond. I have no place within it. God's speed to you all. My apologies," He paused to bow his head briefly to Donatello in regard to the wound he'd inflicted on the turtle.

"Botticelli," Splinter squared his shoulders and stood firmly in his spot. "One day, perhaps, you will see the error in your words. They are not in your heart even now. I hope that day is sooner, rather than later. And when that day comes...here, we will be."

Botticelli had barely made it through the door and all eyes, as well as a plethora of questions, were shot at Splinter at an alarming rate.

"You can't just let him go!" Leo and Mikey both protested.

Raph had rushed forward, his hands palm up in his disbelief, "What if he goes tellin' people where we are? It ain't safe out there for us, just as much as it ain't for him!"

"Even if he was dead...why didn't you tell us about him?" Don's question was lost in the sea of others, though his eye ridges came together. "Why keep the memory, and the pain, alone?" They each drown the other out for each turtle wanting his answer first.

"HIY!" Splinter snapped over the din which brought a still silence over the room. When all had settled, the rat lifted one hand. "Raphael, place Leonardo on the couch," he waited for the turtle to obey and when he had, he twisted his hand so it was flat, palm up, toward the door. "Let no harm come to him. Follow your brother my sons, while Leonardo rests."


	9. Knee Deep in Surprise

**Thank Our Unlucky Stars  
><strong>Chapter 8:  
><span>Knee Deep in Surprise<span>

Botticelli sensed that he was being followed, but every time he glanced over his shoulder the alleyways or roof tops were empty. He wasn't, however, prepared to let his guard down. He was very diligently counting the footfalls he took between each time he was sure he heard something or saw a bird flutter off as if startled. There was no order, nor commonality, between each time he sensed something and when he didn't.

After the fourth time it happened, he decided to pick up his pace and focus on his point of attack. He bent his head forward and pulled at the bell of his hood, as rain started to speckle the rooftop below him. He could hear the echo of the drops on the heavy fabric of his cloak's hood. It, unfortunately, muffled the sounds that he was so diligently logging. He knew it would keep him from being able to track anyone following him.

He sprang across one rooftop to the next and landed after a few more swift bounds, on the small balcony that protruded out from Saki Tower. He glanced up at nature's unforgiving bath. Lighting cracked across the black backdrop and the clouds, thick and ominous, seemed to blanket the sky in such a way that wouldn't let even a single star shine through. Not that such a heavily lit city would permit a star's shine. He ducked into a shadow just as a small patrol of black clad ninjas, with the trademark red-three pronged emblem, passed.

He watched them amble back by and he, from the pair's direction, deduced their path. He didn't really have a plan, but he knew the zone's he'd swept through before Leonardo became an issue last time. He would avoid them this time. The building was big and he knew he couldn't get through the whole of it in a single night.

Even still, he had to try. If only to fulfill a duty bestowed upon him by people who thought themselves far more powerful, if only for the knowledge they had. And, should he return with the object he sought, he could free himself from their hold.

He ducked into the building by an entryway, the same one he watched a different set of ninjas exit. The fact that the doors were automatic and didn't require manual opening played to his needs, as he was able to slip in before the doors hissed shut behind the oblivious pair, like smoke forgotten in the wind.

"Are ya kiddin' me? How'd he do that?" Raph hissed from an adjacent rooftop. There was something in his tone that harbored on disdain. But it was much more complex than the simple hatred that Raph usually wore so openly to hide everything else.

Mike clapped Raph on the shoulder. "He's better than you," Mikey taunted playfully. "And he likes my gifts, he's still wearing the white bandana." Mikey beamed. "Leo's home sick from school today. I got it covered, bro. I'll be the substitute leader!" With that, Mikey hopped gracefully down onto a fire escape below with the intention to follow their estranged brother. He disregarded Don's hiss of his name and the swipe at catching him before the adventurous orange wearing turtle could act. Don's hand was centimeters short of grabbing his brother.

Without much other choice, Don and Raph darted after Mikey. This wasn't the time to play follow the leader, but both Don and Raph felt the pang of adrenaline hit them as they knew they would have to keep up with Mikey and his energetic sprint. Or risk far more danger letting their self-appointed leader go in alone.

"This is crazy. Sensei can't condone us going in there after him." Don complained thoughtfully. "We're already crippled enough without Leo."

"You scared?" Mikey called over his shoulder. He was on the small outdoor balcony, the same platform that Botticelli had landed on. Unlike his stealthy brother, Mikey opted to take on the two Foot ninjas in their very specific route, as they circled once more past the balcony. Neither Raph nor Don had to hurry and offer aid to their brother who handily clobbered the two ninjas into unconscious submission.

His nunchucks were still whirling in victory, a bright grin engulfed Mikey's whole face, when his brothers arrived. Don was slightly slower as he catered to the temporarily lame arm. It would heal but for the time being Don knew his limits.

"Ya always gotta show off, don't ya?" Raph growled, pushing Mikey in his shoulder so that he stumbled back slightly. He was already annoyed by Don's comment regarding Leo's leadership. The circular motion of Mike's nunchucks stopped and he tucked them under his arms, simply grinning in response.

The three of them slipped in behind where Botticelli had entered. They could never have been prepared for what they faced; it was no longer an empty hallway as it appeared to be before. Instead, Botticeilli's hood was pushed back and his head was exposed. There was a pink splotch, near his temple, on the white gauze that was tied across his eyes. It was slowly turning into a dark crimson, yet still he fought. He was facing off against Shedder's elite guard.

The fact that he was outnumbered, four to one, didn't appear to phase him. His blades were furiously clanking against whatever they could bite into, but it seemed that they'd arrived just as Botticelli had lost the upper hand; if he'd ever had it.

His blade caught in the three pronged weapon of the first guardsman. The ninja twisted his staff and with it, Botticelli's arm. There was a wild snap as the blade of his right arm dagger cracked off. The disconnected shaft spun across the floor, the inertia only stopping it at Mikey's feet. The second dagger was lodged into the pike tip of another ninja's weapons. With Botticelli's other arm caught by one and his second dagger in jeopardy, he was rendered immobile.

"You won't want to do that." Botticelli warned the ninja calmly, who had lifted his foot and now prepared himself to stomp on the angled blade. The leverage would snap it in half too. Botticelli closed his eyes and turned his head the other way in a soft wince. Surprisingly, the dagger didn't break under the intense pressure. Instead, the elite guardsman's weapon, which was what had the dagger trapped, groaned and the metal head of his pike snapped off instead.

Raph ducked as the pike head wheeled off toward him. It buried itself, with a thud, in the wall just behind him. He let out a grunt and sprang to action, invigorated both by the close call and the fight before him. His sais came out and in an instant, they attacked the guard who was holding Botticelli's arm. It gave Botticelli the chance to unsheathe his short sword, as his broken dagger was out of use. He swung at the ninja who held his other arm, still intact with weapon. In a soft 'poof', the ninja vanished, but left Botticelli unhindered and free of any constraint.

One corner of the cloaked turtle's mouth turned up. "Raphael, I thank you." he said.

"Ain't about you. I just can't stand these guys." Raph grumbled in the same attempt at loathsome contempt he often used.

"No matter your intent, your actions are good and helpful. For it, I thank you." Botticelli reiterated as their shell's bumped together when they back into one another as not to leave their backs vulnerable, almost automatically in defense of one another.

"Can it Botticelli, ya remind me too much of Leo right now, if he spoke French. I hate it when he gets all touchy feely too."

Botticelli leaned a little against Raph's carapace and Raph pushed back as they carefully inched around in a circle as to keep a keen eye on their surroundings together. "Stop." Botticelli hissed. Without question, Raph did so. He couldn't explain what possessed him to heed Botticelli's words. It could have been the fact that he'd seen him fight and knew he was skilled or maybe it was something deeper than that. Whatever the case may be, Raph's movement halted.

Botticelli was sensing their movements and watching their habits as the elite guard disappeared and reappeared in and out of existence around them. There was a slight trend and he anticipated one right in front of him, following the same pattern. In a swift motion, three of his poisoned darts flew from his hand and, on their mark, lobbed themselves into the chest of one of the men with a straw hat just as he appeared. It seemed, momentarily, as if the darts hadn't taken effect. But, as he attempted to vanish in a puff of smoke, he failed and stumbled before collapsing.

Raphael heard the thud and a small smile crept across his face, which resembled more of a smirk. He couldn't deny that there was some confidence he gleaned from having Botticelli at his back.

Don and Mikey had engaged the other two the second that Raph threw himself into the battle, barreling the brothers in two different directions of the fight. Mikey slipped his foot under Botticelli's broken blade and, with a flick of his ankle, flipped the weapon into the air. He caught it expertly and shoved it into the leather belt around his waist.

Mikey heard Don hiss, as he'd been distracted with rescuing the broke piece of Botticelli's weapon. He glanced over just as Don had keeled over and was cradling his wounded arm while one of the guardsmen hovered over him. The stitches had clearly broken open as visible blood was gushing from his arm.

"Hey! Ugly, why don't you pick on someone..." Mikey trailed off before his whirling weapons came to life in his hand expertly, "like ME!" In an instant, Mikey had brought his weapons to the fight and the opposing ninja met him with skill of his own. He was wielding a double headed axe and it was aimed straight for Mikey's bald head. Mikey's chuck pinged off the blade as he danced on his feet, distracting the ninja from Don.

Though Mikey was fast, the ninja was stronger and Mikey had to duck and roll an incoming blow. He didn't have time to consider how bad this situation might be. Don, on the other hand, was absolutely aware of their predicament. He had brought his bo staff up with his strong, uninjured arm, and he used his hand to steady the weapon with his weakened one.

"We have to get out of here!" Don hollered.

"Agreed." Botticelli nodded and confirmed softly; only Raph heard him.

The three remaining elite ninjas vanished, two having gathered up their fallen comrade. "That...can't be good." Raph mumbled, knowing full well that their retreat when they were ahead meant only one thing...

No sooner had the thought crossed Raph's mind and the heavy clink of Shredder's pseudo-samurai armor could be heard on the tiled floor. "What did you do, Bo?" Mikey asked, the nickname having rolled off his tongue before he had time to question his estranged brother's new moniker. "Just wanted to break into the family biz with some style I see." The handles of Mikey's chucks were tucked under his arms, while he held the other side in tight fits. He slowly stepped back, subconsciously moving away from the Shredder, though his words attempted to mask his fear.

Raph had swung around to stand beside Botticelli.

"I do not fear you." Botticelli stated firmly.

"That would be your second mistake," the ominous voice of the massive man echoed maliciously, dangerously from behind the face mask he wore. "Your first would be theft."

Botticelli's single arm dagger sprang to life and he dove into action. his sword clattering to the floor in his action. Raph had moved to catch him, but it was too late. Shredder met Botticelli's force, as his three remaining elite guard stood statuesque behind him, with energy. The dagger caught Shredder's fist spears and deflected the punch that was aimed for Botticelli's face. In a swift motion, the turtle caught the flat end of his dagger. The edged cut into his palm but it gave him the leverage he needed to slide under and between Shredder's legs.

On the other side, he hopped to his feet and sprang onto Shredder's back in a matter of seconds. One of his poisoned darts came down between the space where Shredder's helmet sat on his head and his chest piece met. It was a vulnerable spot, the bend of his neck, on most. Botticelli held on tightly, anticipating the man to wobble at any moment now as poison penetrated his system. "I am no more a thief than you." Botticelli hissed. "The item you possessed was not yours to have. It belongs to the world."

He hesitated a second longer, waiting for the man to fall - but still he remained tall and strong; unbothered by the poisoned, narrow dagger. It was then that the laugh started. "Foolish turtle." Shredder mocked. With a closed fist, he punched over his shoulder so that the double prongs of his gauntlet lanced the soft spot between Botticelli's carapace and plastron, near his neck but not quite to his shoulder. Botticelli only took the wound head on because he'd expected that his adversary would be at least weakened by the poison. He had no idea that which he faced was not human.

His dagger scrapped the surface of Shredder's armor as the man pulled Botticelli over his shoulder by the blades of his gauntlet. The turtle fought the scream that itched at the back of his throat from the way Shredder's blades tore at his flesh and were used as the leverage with which to lift him. He slammed into the ground when Shredder wheeled him over his shoulder and off from his back. All the wind escaped Botticelli's body as he slammed into the hard ground with his plastron to the floor. He felt a splintering in his chest, followed by a sudden cool rush as blood poured from his chest in a crack that radiated from the middle of his torso up almost to the top of his plastron plates.

The last thing he remember thinking, before blackness took over, was how impossible this man's strength was.


	10. It's Not Safe, Don't Follow Me

**Thank Our Unlucky Stars  
><strong>Chapter 9:  
><span>It's Not Safe, Don't Follow Me<span>

Raphael looked back on the fight with little energy left, other than sheer adrenaline. The second he'd watched - or worse - heard Botticelli crash into the ground, his eyes narrowed and he felt every ounce of blood in his body excite with rage. Botticelli may not be one of theirs. He may not be the most traditional Hamato, he may not be one at all, but part of his existence was bound to theirs; for it, Raph felt responsible for him.

He had gone for Shredder, but Don's bo caught his feet before he could get even a few feet ahead. Mikey had already moved into action, to collect the fallen turtle. It, like it often did for Raph, moved so fast that he couldn't recall the details. All he knew was that they had escaped, only just. Mikey had Botticelli slung over his back and was moving slower for being encumbered with his brother's dead weight. They weaved in and out of their subscribed enemy, with nothing more in mind than freedom.

Whether Botticelli would recognize them as siblings mattered little to Michelangelo. Mikey had already claimed him, eagerly.

The words, 'we have to get him back to the lair', were still ringing in Raph's ears - that tone, Don's voice, serious and concerned, worried him. Don had a variety of tones that he had in which Raph could usually use to denote what was going through the brainiac's mind. That one, that particularly tone, was fear and uncertainty. Raph knew why too, he'd seen the crack down Botticelli's plastron from which blood oozed. It as thick and red, darker than the color Raph identified with.

"I thought it was a dream..." Raph mumbled in Don's lab as he watched their tech savvy brother work under a bright halogen light. He hated feeling the way he did right then, helpless. He had the overwhelming urge to throw a fist into something as if that would solve something. "I don't even like him!" Raph's tone turned into something a little more dangerous and bitter, through gritted teeth.

The only acknowledgment that Don heard a word Raph said was the swift flick of his eyes from Botticelli's body to Raph's face and immediately back again. "I'm not a doctor," Don managed uttering as he fingered at the crack, which hadn't stopped bleeding.

"Do something!" Raph barked. "Anything. He saved Leo...we...we have to save him."

"Raphael." Splinter's hand came down lightly on the hothead's thick shoulder. The calmness of his father's voice seeped into Raph, but only helped mildly. The old rat didn't linger with his red clad son. Instead, he moved forward and looked down at Botticelli's unconscious body. He frowned and his ears flattened in sadness.

He reached into a bowl of water Donatello had brought and cleaned his hands and moved to cleanse the wound himself. As he did he asked Donatello to fetch the jar which held his tea, fresh water, clean bandages, tape, flour, honey, and a few other oddities.

The room was silent, but thick with tension as Splinter meticulously cleaned the wound. He was humming a soft Japanese tune as he worked. The sound struck Raph as something lonesome and melancholy. He couldn't convince himself to move forward and help his sensei.

"I was sure you'd forgotten your dreams," Splinter finally spoke. "Thank you." He added softly to Donatello who had arrived with the requested items. He carefully took to mixing a variety of the items in a bowl.

"It wasn't a dream." Raph's voice was low when he spoke. "I thought it was, but it wasn't. Thought it was Leo sometimes too." Raph shook his head.

"What are you talking about?" Don took a small step forward.

"Everyone was following me...we were going where sensei said we shouldn't. It was too dangerous to go alone, we were so little. He'd gone for food, told us to stay in that one spot. Dumb. I was dumb. I'm sure he was following me to make sure I was okay, Leo's always been bossy and has to know whats going on...and well Mikey didn't like to be alone. You stayed like you were supposed to.

"I fell in. The water was too fast, I remember it swirling around me and stuff. I was drowning. Mikey came after me, then Leo. There was a current. It's fuzzy - the memory. Long time ago and all that. He got Leo out and then Mike. I was alone, further up. Maybe we couldn't talk, but we could move. He got me on the edge but I couldn't get him too. I was tired. He was tired. Then he was gone and we were all shouting for him and...nothing. I..." Raph shook his head and frown pinching at the spot between his eyes, "thought it was a dream. I remember the feeling, but not what happened exactly. Least not like I remember stuff now. Sometimes I can still hear us screaming and the water rushing around." Raph looked up to Splinter. "S'him wasn't it?"

Splinter didn't look up to Raph. He merely reached forward and filled the crack down Botticelli's front with a funny light green paste that came from the variety of things he'd been mixing in the bowl. He then covered it with the flour as a final fill. "The tea will help stop the bleeding and heal the wound. The other parts will seal it." His eyes landed on Raph briefly, before bowing his head. "Yes, it was him. Now, we must wait."

Don look to Splinter after watching Raph with wide eyes. His arm was still in need of healing too. "I'll stay with him and let you know if his condition changes. Besides, I have work to do here." He didn't give Raph a chance to argue before ushering him out of the lab. Splinter too left without any argument.

The scientific minded Hamato was looking at the broken weapon that had been salvaged by Mikey. The other undamaged harness was removed with all of Botticelli's other articles. Don picked up the broken blade and compared it to the still whole weapon. It only took him a moment to figure out the trigger that set the blades to action. It was a instigated by the tightening of the muscle around the thick of the wearer's forearm, which put pressure on the straps and initiated the spring that ejected the blade. The same technology was used to retract the weapon. It was remarkable for its age, Don mused.

What struck his attention, however, was how different it was from its mate. The blades didn't match, though the construction did. The decorative steel bracer that covered the front of the forearm was identical; it was only the blades that differed. The one that had not broken was aged a great deal, dull gray in color - oddly, the one that broke appeared to be newer, shinier.

Don wanted to fix the weapon while his estranged sibling rested, perhaps as condolence for his valiant effort.

"Donnie."

The purple wearing turtle jumped in his spot at the sound of his name. It was once he brought his heart rate down that he recognized Mikey voice.

"Whatchadoin'?" Mikey's voice was tentative and his whole demeanor dropped as he walked by Botticelli. He paused and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Common bro, ya gotta make good on this livin' thing." He carefully placed a new ,white cloth mask over Botticelli's eyes. "There ya go, Bo. We'll put it on right when ya wake up." A sad smile passed Mikey's face as he plopped down next to Don.

"Whoa, they're different. Couldn't tell when there was fighting happening." Mikey said and looked curiously over to Don. "Leo's up and around. Guess Bo does know - at least what breaks down his own poisons."

Don gave Mikey a passing glance and a dismissive 'hmmm' simply for the fact that his mind was full and his arm hurt off and on. He knew the dangers of these very weapons as it had been one that wounded him.

"Sooooo..." Mikey spoke slowly and with direction to his words, not at all put off by the way Don had not expressed interest in him right then. "What's this say?" He asked suddenly, his words all blurring together, as he hopped up and placed a small piece of paper in front of Don; overtop of the daggers.

Don looked a the tiny square of yellowed parchment paper. His head tipped over to Mikey who was looking on expectantly but with his hands behind his back, rocking back and forth on his feet.

"Mikey...where did you get this?" Don questioned slowly, pointedly.

"Oh...ya know, places." Mikey smiled. "But never from that omamori that Bo had tied to his belt. Not from there."

"MIKEY!" Don scolded.

"Whaaaaaat? You told me to take all his stuff off. So I...did. Cleaned the robe-thingy, check. Put the cutlass to be sharpened with Leo's katana, double check! Folded up the dart-jobers - maybe he should consider shuriken - with the arrows and bow, yep! The omamori fell off his belt. I didn't want to damage the paper inside when I cleaned the blood off the silk. Then I realized it was in some language I couldn't read - not French, not that I can read French but I recognize French. Soooooo...what's it say?"

"Some...z'ing...about...ze..." the third voice that entered was heavier, tired, and thicker with the French accent than either had heard since Botticelli came into their lives. Botticelli choked and his eyes fluttered shut as he tried to focus. The labor of speaking made him trail off in what he was trying to tell them. Instead he tried for another direction. "Iz not bad. I...must go..."

It was when he tried to move that Don and Mikey were instantly on either side of him. "Hang on there, you're not going anywhere."

"Yeah, Bo, chill."

The turtle had managed sitting up a little but was panting from the exertion, though he gave no indication that he was going to give up. He placed a hand over his chest and furrowed his brow ridge, grunting a little as he tried to neutralize and control the pain. The mask had slipped off its resting place in his movement, tumbling down his bandaged plastron only to rest against his thighs. "I...z'hey are waiting...for me. I...ze conzequencez are worse z'hen any damage I may cause myself." Despite his words, he leaned back a little. "S'ank you; for your assistaunts."

"Lay back, Bo." Don had easily picked up on Mikey's nickname for the Frenchman. "I was trying to repair your weapons first." It was a slick attempt that Don hoped would settle the wounded man. A way to get him to at least not move for a few hours. "They're remarkable."

"Yez...one, I call eet _incassable_. Eet meanz, ooohhh, unbreakable."

"Why?" Mikey asked.

"You saw what happoned when ze guard try to destroy eet...eet breaks oz'thar weapons. Eet cannot be broken."

"How is that possible? You mean in theory...right? All metals have a weakness." Don questioned.

"No, I mean in absolute. Eet...cannot be broken. I have long pondered why and how. I believe I have ze anz'ers. Though eet iz...complicated. I will do my bezt to explain. In a moment." Botticelli leaned back and closed his eyes for longer this time, taking in several ragged breaths as he gathered his strength. "Perhapz, first you could...tell me how he was so strong."

Mikey and Don merely exchanged glances. Mikey shrugged and Don nodded. A silent conversation passed between them in those few seconds. The brief unspoken words all passed in a few seconds. You want to tell him? No, you. Keep him awake and give him a break.

"Well...once upon a time," Mikey started, "in a galaxy far, far away an evil man by the name of Shredder lived..."


End file.
